


The Slowest Burn

by beetle



Series: The Culladaar and Doribull Romance Series No One Asked For (But You’re Getting It Anyway): [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Aftermath of Torture, Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Cullen Rutherford is Bisexual, Banter, Cassandra is a bro, Culladaar, Cullen Rutherford Has Issues, Dagna/Magical Theory, Desperation, Emotional Constipation, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Fancy Glowing Coaster, Feels, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Grim Cullen Rutherford, Heavy Petting, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied Male Adaar Inquisitor & Iron Bull Bromance, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury Recovery, Inquisitor Backstory, Kinloch Hold, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Lyrium, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mutual Pining, Near Death, Obsessive Behavior, One-sided Doridaar, POV Cullen Rutherford, Past Torture, Pining, Red Lyrium, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt, That's not a euphemism, They like to pummel each other, Unrequited Love, Withdrawal Symptoms, hints - Freeform, smut-lite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-19 05:10:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13697541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Basically? This is a Culladaar-flavored take on the “Before the Dawn”-quest, from Cullen’s POV. The thirst isreal, y’all, and the burn issloooow, NGL. But now, with increased Desperation, Determination, Isolation . . . and Hope.





	1. DESPERATION

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThreeWhiskeyLunch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch/gifts), [hotot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot/gifts), [littleleotas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleleotas/gifts), [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Five chapters, set during the “Before the Dawn”-quest. SPOILERS. Cullen Rutherford POV. AU in that Cullen is bisexual—or, Inquisitor-sexual, at any rate. LYRIUM ADDICTION/WITHDRAWAL. Mentions of past torture. Mentions of/recovery from life-threatening injuries. Angst, feels, flirting, banter, concomitant violence, and smut. The title is apt, though. Mentions of other pairings, requited and not. Altered mental states. Minor character death. For reference, the previous fic in the series, “Longing (With Occasional Small Lightnings),” is from Adaar’s POV, and linked-to at the point where it occurs in the series' timeline: near the middle of the **third** chapter of this fic.
> 
> To my four giftees, for their constant patience, cheerleading, support, and _invaluable_ concrit and feedback. You’re all awesome. Thank you  <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Inquisitor Kaaras Adaar returns from the Emerald Graves, dirty, scraped-up, tired, and _beautiful_.
> 
> Also in which _Cullen Rutherford_ confesses a huge secret to Adaar—not the one about how Cullen is hopelessly, desperately in love with him—just the one about his lyrium addiction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Kaaras Adaar ( **UPDATED!** ):
> 
>  

**DESPERATION**

 

_*Every time I stare into the sun,_

_Tryna find a reason to go on,_

_All I ever get is burned and blind,_

_Until the sky bleeds the pouring rain. . . ._

 

Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition’s military was, as he so often seemed to be, these days: leaning over his desk, aching-icy fists braced on the neatly-organized surface, staring down at his lyrium-kit with both loathing and longing.

 

Even he’d begun to lose track of the time that passed while he was thus engaged— _obsessed_. His only temporal markers were the increasing cold and ache in his hands and the ramping up of withdrawal symptoms, most notably: dry-mouth, light-sensitivity headaches, and body-wide aches, shakes, and chills.

 

And the lyrium-song, of course. It wouldn’t do to forget the bloody song. . . .

 

He hadn’t been at his staring and obsessing for _too_ terribly long, this time, at least. It hadn’t been long at all since he’d been advised of the Inquisitor’s return from the Emerald Graves. Which meant that sooner rather than later, given the Inquisitor’s proactive nature, Cullen would be briefed on whatever had occurred and been found during the mission.

 

Even if only so the Inquisitor could begin the laborious, but necessary task of shrugging off said mission and settling into the routines he clearly valued in his mostly hectic, spontaneous life. Surely, before the sun was really on the wester, Inquisitor Kaaras Adaar would be clean, simply—but comfortably—attired in a lightweight, spring-appropriate version of his signature Herald-uniform: white tunic and breeches, and grey boots.

 

Before dusk, he’d have probably found at least one brave, selfless soul to sit a game of chess with him, unwinnable though such a proposition was for any and all comers—even Cullen.

 

The Inquisitor tended to work as hard as any of his advisors and direct subordinates. Harder, sometimes. But nary a few days went by when he didn’t make time to trounce someone at chess. Especially if that someone was Dorian Pavus, who was a shameless, notorious cheat and scoundrel regarding the game.

 

The thought always made Cullen smile. If anyone had earned the right to enjoy themselves with a few hours of easy chess-wins, it was certainly Kaaras Adaar. Dorian obviously felt the same, which was probably half the reason he cheated so obviously and poorly. His tendency to do so was well-known for making the Inquisitor smile and laugh, big and warm and carefree. _Fond_.

 

Though Adaar was certainly fierce in his own right, as both a mage and a man—a _Vashoth_ man, no less—and a leader, Cullen never forgot something he’d learned about Andraste’s Herald earlier-on in their professional relationship:

 

For such a fierce, determined, and righteous person—for someone with his prodigious talent at magic and genius at strategy, not to mention his ability to command and master himself, and others—Kaaras Adaar was, when all was said and done, a surprisingly kind and affable soul. All warmth and concern and _heart_.

 

But unlike so many leaders who also were, Adaar never hid this, never put it behind that unyielding conviction and ruthless determination of his to see wrongs righted. Even so, he didn’t _have_ to hide it. His circumstances and race hid it for him. Few, indeed, chose to look past even the initial, incorrect assumption of: _dangerous Qunari without the stabilizing, civilizing influence of the Qun_.

 

Many who made it even that far, assumed that Adaar was all the worst stereotypes of a Tal-Vashoth, of an apostate mage, and/or of a former mercenary. Infuriatingly, at least to Cullen, the most common stereotype in which many others who should have known far better indulged was: the larger and stronger the man, physically, the less intelligent he was likely to be.

 

Kaaras Adaar had frequently taken advantage of these ridiculous assumptions—had frequently used to his and the Inquisition’s advantage the galling fact that when most humans looked at him, they saw only a brute. A baby-faced one, but a brute, nonetheless.

 

Being Tal-Vashoth—in appearance, if not lifestyle, philosophy, or fact—was its own game-face. One that many ignored or didn’t understand, even if they saw past the intimidating size (well, _height_ , really, for though Adaar was tall even for a Qunari, slightly taller, even, than The Iron Bull, Adaar’s size was _mostly height_ . . . his _build_ , though solid enough, was also leanly-muscled and lanky, like some gangling, but oddly graceful colt) and the long, curling, copper-plated horns.

 

They simply saw a Vashoth, who’d had the (mis)fortune of being at the right/wrong place at the right/wrong time and receiving from Andraste the gift that should have gone to a member of her (human) faithful.

 

Cullen, however, had seen since nearly the beginning—and with increasing depth, as the Inquisition ground on in its course—beyond those things. Rather, had seen those things and yet looked closer, _still_. Adaar’s height, though certainly as striking as everything else about the man, simply was what it was, and used to effect only when others made it obvious that the height was already affecting them. The graceful and relative slimness of his build, that of an especially tall dancer, was overlooked between the reach of head and horns, and the broadness of his shoulders and upper chest. So few seemed to note that intriguingly elegant taper of his torso, from wide shoulders, to streamlined-trim waist, narrow hips, and strong, long legs.

 

Adaar’s plated horns, gaze-commanding and complementary, drew attention away from the distractingly boyish, fine-featured face below. Like the rest of him, his face was long and relatively narrow, with prominent and stark-strong bone-structure. But the leavening of what might have otherwise been a severe, if handsome face was accomplished by big, wide hazel eyes that seemed to sparkle with mirth and optimism and . . . wonder. By a mouth that was wide and spare-lipped, but mobile and smile-ready. By an unusually ruddy complexion for one of Qunari ancestry—as pink as it was grey—and flecked and spattered with freckles. Said freckles were rivaled in vividness only by the waggly ginger eyebrows and strictly-tamed head of ginger hair above.

 

Unlike most Qunari and Vashoth, Adaar was rather hirsute about the head—though _only_ his head, so far as Cullen knew, and not his face or chest—where said hair was both fine and prolific. Dead-straight and usually pulled back into a shoulder blade-length ponytail that shined like a river of beaten and burnished copper.

 

Cullen spent more time than he’d ever admit, even to himself, imagining what it might be like to untie and undo that braid, and simply plunge his stiff-achy-cold fingers into that heavy, shining-burnished mass. To use it for gripping and guiding . . . for _grounding_ himself in the heady reality of Adaar’s presence and safety and closeness.

 

He wondered what it might be like to simply see it unbound and settled around that handsome, freckled-boyish face, with its crooked-warm smile. To be able to lean close and simply rest his own face close to the one he’d come to adore above all others. . . .

 

The sudden flare of tingling and heat in places that had only recently remembered _how_ —with the advent of lyrium withdrawal and increasing time off the curséd substance—to tingle and heat, returned Cullen to the moment somewhat. He glared down at his lyrium-kit even as he smiled bitterly. And the most banal sort of torture and temptation lyrium seemed, after the _sweet-sinful-intense_ torture and temptation that was even recalling _Kaaras Adaar_ in his mind’s-eye.

 

Banal, yes, but powerful. Especially to a weak and broken soldier such as Cullen Rutherford. _Commander of the Inquisition’s military_. Even in the middle of said Commander yearning with his head, heart, and . . . other bits, for one above his station and far beyond his actual worth.

 

Cullen drew a shuddering breath and flexed his hands out of their curled fists. He splayed them flat on his desk, so the innocuous lyrium-kit was a promise and lie of silence and peace, sitting exactly halfway between them. The hope of _relief_ , however fleeting, from the _Hell_ of withdrawal: the shakes, the aches, the chills, and the bloody _song_.

 

A discreet knock on the closed—but not _locked_ . . . Cullen wasn’t quite so paranoid about his oldest obsession . . . _yet_ —castle-door to his office brought Cullen fully back to the moment. Back to his current place and time. Frowning, he assumed it was either one of his own subordinates with news or confirmation of his most recent orders, or a runner with a message from the Inquisitor asking his availability for briefing.

 

“Enter,” Cullen called as he shut the lyrium-kit with a quiet click, but didn't put it away. (It certainly wasn’t unusual for a former Templar to still have a lyrium-kit nearby. It was, in fact, assumed and expected. After all, Templars needed their lyrium—not just for the special edge, but eventually for maintenance and simple functionality. Thus, a former Templar with a lyrium-kit was a tree with leaves. No one, Cullen knew, noticed when the two were together, as expected.)

 

The door to Cullen’s office opened and the Inquisitor poked his horned head in, ducking the lintel with the ease and grace of most of a lifetime spent doing so with many doorways.

 

As ever, Cullen found himself returning the younger man’s slightly hapless, slightly doofy—entirely endearing—smile.

 

“Ah, Inquisitor . . . I . . . didn’t expect you to arrive for a briefing so quickly. I’m, er, presuming that’s why you’re here,” Cullen stammered and stuttered out as his eyes skated helplessly, ceaselessly over the Inquisitor’s angular, flushed—smudged, dirty, scraped, _beautiful_ —face. He felt flustered and under-prepared, in the focus of that steady, direct brown-green-blue-gold gaze. The weight of the Inquisitor’s faith, belief, and confidence in the people with whom he surrounded himself was, at turns, exhilarating and dismaying. Not least of why was because Adaar had a way of telegraphing that faith, belief, and confidence even in a simple glance.

 

And when he did, the recipient of that glance _felt it_.

 

 _Cullen_ felt it.

 

And he _knew_ he was unworthy.

 

“You presume correctly, Commander. As ever.” Adaar slipped into the office and shut the door behind him. For such a tall and relatively sturdy man, he often gave the impression of a certain willowy-ness or even _slightness_ . . . as if he was, in actuality, simply a very big and well-disguised elf.

 

The outfit that clothed Adaar’s “disguise” was his typical sort of travel-attire: a simple, plainly-woven brown tunic, and oft-patched, brown leather breeches, decorated with dust and blood. Over his clothes, he wore his usual light-armor of: steel-mailed brigandine of ram’s leather, mailed vambraces and greaves also of ram’s leather, and his russet-colored, rune-woven surcoat made of August ram’s leather over it all. At his waist, sheathed in a worn, but durable scabbard was the mage-sabre, Spellweaver, which the Inquisitor fondly called “the _shamshir_ of destiny.”

 

And as adept as Adaar was at using the sabre’s magical properties, he was far better with using his _staff_ as a focus. _Frighteningly_ better. Even in his years as a Templar at Kinloch and at Kirkwall, Cullen had seen few mages who’d compared in speed, skill, range, control, and raw, staggering power. Not to mention the ingenuity and cleverness to make good use of those valuable traits.

 

The Hero of Ferelden often came to mind in comparison, however, as did the Champion of Kirkwall, both of whom Cullen had had the honor of—briefly—knowing. . . .

 

Adaar’s long stride brought him to Cullen’s desk and he stopped before it, a polite distance away, practically at parade-rest, as if _he_ was _Cullen’s_ subordinate: some raw Templar-recruit about to be debriefed or even reprimanded.

 

He even bowed his head a little, with respectful and cordial deference, while holding Cullen’s gaze easily. Few could do so, Cullen had often noticed, even when there _wasn’t_ nearly ten inches of height difference between the two of them. Not that _this_ ten-ish inches was even in Cullen’s favor.

 

Of course, for Cullen, holding _Adaar’s_ curious-keen-kind gaze was far too easy, as always. The real struggle was not getting so lost in it that he forgot himself entirely.

 

The Inquisitor’s smile, though tired, was rather satisfied. “I’ve brought you a souvenir of our foray into the Emerald Graves, Commander. Something that might put a smile on that appealing, but solemn face,” he said, reaching into a left inner pocket of his surcoat. He frowned momentarily, but thunderously as he rifled the contents of said pocket, whilst muttering under his breath. Finally, his expression brightened, and he pulled out three folded sheets of creased and limp paper.

 

Cullen’s brows lifted. “Er . . . requisition requests? For the next mission?” he asked when Adaar’s frown shifted into his usual crooked-mischievous smile. As ever, Cullen ignored the few breathless moments that resulted from his rattled-yearning heart skipping beats. Adaar moved closer, until Cullen heard the mailed tips of his boots bump the front of his desk. The Inquisitor’s eyes were bright, and he held out the somewhat crumpled papers triumphantly.

 

“Close, Commander, but no horseshoe, for you. Ahhh . . . I, er, stumbled across them by accident—or perhaps by Providence. They appear to be letters from smugglers. _Red lyrium_ smugglers,” Adaar clarified, then nodded when Cullen gaped. But his next words froze Cullen as he reached for the pages. “I’m fairly certain Samson’s referenced in the foremost one, at least, unless my Chantry-school Orlesian is failing me faster than I’d supposed.”

 

When he was able to raise his eyes from the letters in Adaar’s hand, Cullen met that candid, but ever-kind hazel gaze.

 

“I think that the Inquisition’s top priority, until the matter is resolved, _has_ to be Raleigh Samson, and the neutralizing, thereof, Cullen,” Adaar said, firm but so strangely gentle. Concerned.

 

Swallowing and lowering his eyes to his closed, unused lyrium-kit—a plain, small box of dense, unremarkable wood—Cullen sighed. “If . . . if you believe that’s wisest and necessary, Inquisitor, I shall see it done with alacrity.”

 

“Cullen. . . .” Adaar sighed, as well, placing the letters on the desk and absently smoothing them with his gloved fingertips. But he didn’t speak until Cullen once more met his eyes. “While I appreciate the trust and deference you show me, I don’t need an echo-chamber when it comes to leading the Inquisition. I need an outspoken bloody _firebrand_ who’ll tell me when I’m being pigheaded or stupid, short-sighted or an arse. I know I excel at all four, when I’m not careful.”

 

“No, Inquisitor— _Kaaras_ ,” Cullen leapt to say, even before Adaar finished his wry and sardonic joke at his own expense. The Inquisitor’s ginger brows drew together in question and he immediately fell silent, ever-interested in his Commander’s opinions and thoughts on any matter, even those not related to the Inquisition.

 

It was esteem Cullen didn’t deserve. The freeness with which Adaar’s generosity was lavished at all times—on everyone, really, but Cullen couldn’t help feeling that when it came to him, Adaar went the extra mile—made him ache with all the things he’d ever wanted and all the things he’d never get.

 

“Inquisitor,” he started over, when he was certain his voice wouldn’t quaver too much, “I wouldn’t presume to know—without confirmation from you, of course—what your rationale is in deciding the Inquisition’s focus. I would, however, like you to bear in mind that . . . the history Samson and I share is exactly that: history. My . . . grievances against him need not become the Inquisition’s focus or priority. Nor yours.”

 

Adaar blinked a few times, slow and surprised, then smiled. Because of course, he did. And of course, Cullen’s heart went still before it went utterly haywire, taking his normally measured breathing with it.

 

“Clumsy and unsubtle as I am at endearing myself to persons I admire, and . . . care for, I’m not dedicating the resources of the Inquisition’s army and agents—at the very least—to the animus you bear that disgrace of a man. I’m dedicating it to a morale blow against the Red Templars and a bloody _necessary_ tactical strike against Corypheus, through _his lieutenant_. I’d do the same no matter who wore that title, had I the chance at it. Samson nearly handed the Inquisition _and_ me our arses more than once. _That affront_ certainly needs to be addressed with my aforementioned unsubtlety. The information we have leading to him and his red lyrium source appears to be reliable, for the moment. So, we need to _strike_.” Adaar’s eyes narrowed and flashed. “Ending someone who causes my Commander to look so angry, lost, and _guilty_ is merely a . . . lovely fringe benefit. And I _am_ fond of those.”

 

Cullen couldn’t stifle the laugh that rumbled and chuffed uncertainly out of him. And the way the Inquisitor’s face relaxed into Cullen’s favorite expression, this one so very young and hopeful and vulnerable—from the tiny, delicious curve of his mobile mouth; wide-intent eyes that seemed more honey than hazel in the dim lighting; and his puckish-gorgeous face, all angles and freckles, scrapes and dirt-smudges—was well worth the fluster of a few moments of uncontrolled response. And far less disturbing than Cullen’s other, ever-more-frequent sorts of _uncontrolled response_ where Kaaras Adaar was concerned.

 

“Since practically the moment you staggered out of that Rift at Haven, everyone and his cousin has been doing their best to put themselves and their grievances on your agenda. To have Andraste’s Herald, and then the Inquisitor lead them out of the messes their lives have become, to some idyllic promised land.” Cullen shook his head and snorted, frustrated with everyone who was _not_ Kaaras Adaar . . . including himself. “Southern Thedas looks to you to solve all its problems—with the world soon to follow, I don’t doubt. Everyone looks to you to _save them and take care of them_ , and I . . . I have no wish to be one of those faceless masses.”

 

Adaar’s smile faltered, faded, then was gone, his gaze dropping to Cullen’s desk and the letters. “Ah,” he said, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing a bit. He bit his lower lip—a quick flash of perfect teeth embedded in slightly chapped, but supple, lavender flesh—then licked it anxiously, his brow furrowing. “Right. I . . . it wasn’t my intent to imply that . . . that you need to be saved or taken care of, Cullen. Least of all by me! I didn’t mean to substitute my agency for your own in your personal or professional matters. Nor do I wish to . . . to make you a point or stop-over on my agenda. That’s not how I see you or feel about you. Not at all.”

 

 _Then how_ do _you see me and feel about me, Kaaras? What am I to you, if not another responsibility? Another burden? Another broken thing that your kind heart and noble character compels you to fix?_ Cullen nearly asked, but this response he controlled and practically throttled down as far as he could, before finally letting himself consider a more diplomatic and appropriate reply.

 

“I must apologize, Inquisitor Adaar,” he finally said, low and gruff. “For I spoke without thought or clarity, when you deserve to always be addressed with both. It is no shame to be on your agenda, as it were. No shame to need the care and concern— _staunch protection and defense_ of a champion such as you. No shame, whatsoever. But nearly everyone knows this is the case. And nearly everyone . . . relies upon that _and_ upon you. And you have no respite or relief from the expectations and needs of the entire world. That is . . . unfair, to say the least. And I refuse to add to that, if it can be helped.” Cullen found a smile from somewhere when Adaar met his eyes with both hope and hesitance. “You look to me to perform a job, Kaaras, not to add to your worries.”

 

Adaar’s expression went from wary to quizzical to approving and warm. And almost wondering and gobsmacked with those final two. “Cullen . . . if you believe that I see you as a _worry_ , then please know that you’re a pleasant and diverting one. You’re a burden on neither my mind nor heart, but a balm to them. If I overstep my bounds and try to protect . . . or overprotect you on occasion, it’s only because you _deserve_ protecting. You deserve to be taken care-of. That’s what I believe, and _deeply_. And not from a place of duty and responsibility.” He huffed a silent laugh and looked down at the letters again. “My need to protect you, Cullen Rutherford, has absolutely nothing to do with protecting the _world_ or anyone else on it. Not even a little.”

 

To that, Cullen had no immediate reply, nor, a minute later, did he have a thought-out one. He could only stare and stare at Adaar, and want and want, as had been the case from almost the beginning.

 

“Where _you’re_ concerned, my motives have never been further from altruistic and honorable.” Adaar admitted softly, slowly, his voice thick and too-controlled. “Have never been more selfish . . . and less pure.”

 

Blushing and blanching repeatedly, Cullen darted his gaze away and all around his office when Adaar glanced at him again. Cullen lingered desperately at shelves and books, papers and maps. On his desk, neatly organized, with few bits of correspondence or reminders not stacked upon others.

 

And, of course, the lyrium-kit.

 

“Cullen,” Adaar said, still soft, slow, and too-controlled, but also . . . nearly hoarse with something that already felt like more truth and trust and faith than Cullen could handle. Not when he, himself, was nothing but lies of omission, secrets, and a history of poor decisions and failures.

 

“As leader of the Inquisition, you . . . there’s something I must tell you,” he began, breathless and quick . . . then grim and halting, halfway through. He meant only to briefly scan his leader’s face and mood—such was habit, ingrained long before Cullen had ever met Adaar—but wound up staring obsessively and gazing longingly. That was new, relatively, and peculiar only to Cullen’s relationship with Adaar. But he finally tore his gaze from the Inquisitor’s, like tearing off a still-functioning limb, and with about as much of the attendant pain. That agony was only heightened by the poignant, mirror-perfect reflection of it in _Adaar’s_ entrancing eyes and captivating face, which just _couldn’t_ be possible, just _couldn’t_ —

 

—but whatever the feelings in those eyes and on that face had actually been, when Cullen managed to look up again half a minute later, they were shuttled behind the weight of Adaar’s gentle, endless concern.

 

 _As so many of his responsibilities tend to be when_ Cullen Rutherford _must be dealt with_ , Cullen thought with deep and bitter rue. _I seem to always be more complication than Commander . . . more quagmire than man._

 

“Whatever it is, Commander . . . _Cullen_ , I’m willing to listen,” Adaar promised gravely, his low tenor once more smoothed. His rounded, Free Marches drawl was so sad but so understanding . . . even though Cullen knew that Adaar didn’t know or understand the _half_ of things, or he’d have ousted his Commander long ago. “Always.”

 

“Yes, Inquisitor, I know. And I . . . I _am_ grateful.” Cullen squinted at his lyrium-kit, took a deep breath, and acknowledged that it was now or never. Though part of him had certainly hoped, for the sake of the Inquisitor’s faith and confidence in him, that it might be the latter. “Right. Er.” Straightening and pushing the lyrium-kit toward Adaar a bit, he steadied himself as much as he was able and opened it again. Then he tried to state the facts as if from a distance, though he knew distance was a luxury he would never again have and had maybe never had in the first place. “Lyrium grants Templars our— _their_ abilities. But it controls them, as well. Those cut off . . . suffer. Some go mad, others . . . die. The Inquisition has secured a reliable source of lyrium for the Templars here, as you know. But . . . I no longer take it.”

 

The silence that fell then lasted for less than half a minute, but it felt like a sluggish eternity to Cullen. When the Inquisitor finally spoke, Cullen started, then shivered: anxiety, then relief.

 

“ _You stopped_ ,” Adaar said slowly, not quite asking, but obviously connecting dots. Cullen smiled mirthlessly.

 

“When I joined the Inquisition, yes. It’s . . . been months, now.” _Though each day, even the best of them, has felt like an Age_.

 

“Cullen,” Adaar started, then started over when his normally smooth and calm voice broke, “Cullen . . . could this—if this _can kill you_ —”

 

“It hasn’t yet.” Cullen’s brow furrowed, and he leaned on his desk again, wearied and downcast, and still not quite able to meet Adaar’s eyes. “After what happened in Kirkwall, I couldn’t . . . I will _not_ be bound to the Order—or that _life_ —any longer. Whatever the suffering, I accept it.” Finally, unable to forestall meeting Adaar’s emotive gaze—his compelling, earnest face—once more, Cullen managed a smile he hoped was at least somewhat reassuring. Though, from the wide-worried vulnerability of those eyes and that face, he wasn’t terribly successful. “But I would not put the Inquisition at risk. So, I’ve asked Cassandra to . . . watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised, I . . . I _will_ be relieved of my duties.”

 

The look on Adaar’s face and in those changeable eyes was . . . stricken. Pained and devastated for reasons that, it was obvious, had little or nothing to do with the Inquisition, and everything to do with Adaar’s caring and expansive heart.

 

In the face of the Inquisitor’s concern and sympathy and consideration, Cullen’s physical and emotional pain was put in perspective. And, also, greatly increased.

 

For a few moments, the idea of taking lyrium again, simply to spare Kaaras Adaar—not _the Inquisitor_ —the pain of seeing the suffering of someone he was generous enough to worry over, was both large and logical. It was _all_ the sense and reason in Cullen Rutherford’s world. Of course, it was, because it centered around _Kaaras_. . . .

 

Around Adaar.

 

Around . . . the Inquisitor.

 

“Are you in pain?” Adaar asked diffidently, managing to seem small and defenseless, despite his height, strength, and _presence_ , and Cullen’s firsthand knowledge that there were few battlemages of Adaar’s prowess. The instinct and urge and _imperative_ to comfort and reassure the man who’d—even more than Cassandra Pentaghast—redeemed Cullen’s life in immeasurable ways was impossible to ignore, let alone resist.

 

“I . . . can endure,” Cullen swore to the Inquisitor, if not to himself, also silently noting the vast difference between _I can_ and _I will_.

 

“Thank you for telling me, Commander. I respect what you’re doing, more than I can calmly or discreetly express, at the moment,” Adaar added, his voice heavy and almost stiff with repressed emotion. His steady, hazel eyes, however, were so full of feeling, Cullen couldn’t have named them all, even if he could’ve separated them, one from another. “You have my _full_ support in your noble endeavor. As well as my approval and my _great_ admiration. I am . . . _extremely proud of you_ , Cullen Rutherford.”

 

“Th-thank you, Inquisitor. Your confidence in me, even now, means more to me than _I_ can express,” Cullen replied, flushed, flustered, and pleased. But also torn by keen and deep-seated guilt not only over how his addiction and withdrawal might affect the Inquisition and its aims, but over how it was clearly affecting _the Inquisitor_ on multiple levels.

 

As ever, Cullen’s lifetime of poor decisions was touching and making miserable those who least deserved it. The sloughs of suffering and misery that had been Kinloch and Kirkwall seemed, in that moment, as nothing compared to the pit of despair that was watching someone he knew and . . . cared for hurt unnecessarily for his sake.

 

 _Because of him_.

 

“The Inquisition’s army must always take priority, however. Should anything happen I will defer to Cassandra’s judgment,” Cullen promised grimly, with every fiber of his being. And he meant it. Not for the sake of himself or the Inquisition, nor even the world it was fighting to save, but for the Inquisitor. For _Kaaras Adaar_ , who deserved neither the pain of being let down by someone in whom he’d placed his faith and confidence, nor the attendant shame and censure, internal and external, that came with misguided faith and mis-placed confidence.

 

If Cullen did little other good with his life, he would spare the Inquisitor that despair and disillusionment.

 

“If you feel that safeguard is necessary and it gives you peace of mind, then I won’t interfere with you having it in place. But please remember, Commander,” Adaar said, with steel in his voice and narrowed eyes, “the final call is _mine_. If you desert your post—or resign your commission without me determining such is necessary or called-for, then I’ll simply conscript you, like the Grey Wardens do their candidates.” His copper-colored brows wiggle-waggled, then lifted pointedly, expressively over his freckled, but suddenly stern face. “You don’t get to skive-off saving the world, Cullen Rutherford. Not when you’re so uniquely suited and trained for helping to do so. I _won’t_ let you walk away from me—I mean, from _this_. From the Inquisition. You’re needed and useful and _wanted_ , here. So, _here_ , is where you’ll stay until _I decide_ that’s all at an end. Are we on the same page, Commander?”

 

Cullen blinked at Adaar and swallowed, his entire body flustered with heat and tingling that began and ended at points south of his belt-buckle.

 

Ignoring that scalding flush of pure, undeterred _want_ was impossible. And painful, for every moment of Cullen’s trying. Finally, he sighed and looked down at his lyrium-kit, his mouth ticking at the right corner. “You are far too kind and generous, Inquisitor. Far too forgiving, loyal, and _faithful_. And _bloody stubborn_. One day . . . you _will_ regret those virtues _and_ that stubbornness, and your indiscriminate exemplification of them.”

 

Cullen didn’t even have to look up to know Adaar was smiling his most crooked and wry smile, the left corner of his wide mouth quirked up as if snagged by a fishhook. “Perhaps I will, at that, Commander. But for today, I don’t and won’t. And I doubt I shall for the next several todays, at least. So, that’ll have to do. Now, about the contents of these letters. . . .”


	2. DETERMINATION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two idiots, in deep with both feet, and _so obviously_ . . . to everyone but each other. Because they’re both stupid. Plot-stuff. Dancing around romantic feelings. Stubbornness. Façades slip and crack, and truth peers out. To anyone who gets to the end of this chapter and screams at their device: “JUST PUSH THEIR STUPID, BEAUTIFUL FACES TOGETHER ALREADY!!!!”
> 
> Clearly, you haven’t been heeding the title and subtitles.  
> ::huffs::  
> ::points at Scroll Up button::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes/Warnings: Cullen Rutherford POV. LYRIUM ADDICTION/WITHDRAWAL. Mentions of past torture. Mentions of violence. Mentions of and recovery from life-threatening injuries. Angst, feels, flirting, banter. Altered mental states. Angst. Pining. Assumed “unrequited love.”

**DETERMINATION**

 

_*When you came along the time was right._

_Pulled me like an apple red and ripe._

_Wasn't very long, you took a bite._

_And did me wrong, and it serves me right,_

 

As ever, when it came to the Inquisitor’s instinct for hunting down valuables—be it weapons, magic, loot, or information—the letters certainly panned-out.

 

It wasn’t long before the trail to Samson lead the Inquisitor and his forces to the town of Sahrnia and the quarry, thereat. The red lyrium mining operation was shut down without hesitation. The Inquisitor at last returned from that mission, to Skyhold—even from a distance seeming rather more battered than he usually was at the end of his significant quests—with troops that were a bit more disheartened than even Cullen had expected. The former Templars among them were especially so.

 

Cullen, watching from his brooding-parapet (rather than the parapet just outside his office) hurriedly returned to his desk. He cleared his schedule for the rest of the afternoon, what little of it remained. It was entirely possible and likely he’d be taken-up by the Inquisitor’s briefing well into evening.

 

When Adaar arrived at Cullen’s office, what seemed like moments after Cullen’s own arrival, he was dirty, gaunt, and pale. Distraught-looking, miles below his stalwart and even façade. And limping a little, or Cullen was a nuggalope’s uncle.

 

After a brief pause in the doorway, during which he took a slow, deep—and obviously pained—breath, Adaar stepped into the office proper, seeming almost to waver.

 

“ _Kaaras_ —” Cullen stood and skirted his desk instantly, moving toward Adaar with arms out as if to catch—or simply assist—his superior. But said superior smiled and held up a halting, tremoring right arm as if to stop Cullen. And indeed, Cullen _did_ stop, but Adaar wasn’t warning him off, rather holding out a handful of papers.

 

More found letters, or so Cullen could only imagine. His imaginings were, of course, proved correct.

 

“One of our agents . . . came across these at Sahrnia Quarry,” Adaar huffed out, hoarse and breathless and yes, pained. His held-out arm was shaking a bit, and his left arm was at his side, with his gloved hand resting on Spellweaver as if for strength and perseverance. “Once again, my Orlesian is lamentably rusty, but . . . if I’m reading these correctly and getting the salient points, well, I felt I should be the one to deliver that news to you before you found out in one of Leliana’s briefings.”

 

Despite the chill that rushed up his spine, Cullen closed the space between them until only a yard of distance remained. He reached for the letters with fingers that suddenly, after weeks of relative quiescence, ached like ice and lightning in his bones . . . then dull burning from marrow to skin.

 

But before he could more than brush the tops of the letters, he sighed and looked up—and up and _up_ —and met Adaar’s eyes. In the late afternoon light, shining in from the windows and the slightly ajar door to Cullen’s parapet, they seemed a warm and melancholy golden-gray.

 

“I take it that whatever this news, it’s . . . terrible,” Cullen said dryly, and Adaar’s smile, though still pained, widened with genuine fondness. He took another slow-deep breath that made him wince and go even paler. Perhaps it was the light, and the smudges of dust and dirt on his face, but under his normally ruddy-gray complexion, Adaar seemed a tad . . . _blue-ish_.

 

“Have I ever brought you news that was anything else?” The smile went crooked, acquiring a deep dimple in Adaar’s left cheek. Cullen blushed, and snorted, and looked away to cover his momentary fluster as the Inquisitor went on. “I’ve got rather used to feeling like the proverbial ill wind since acquiring this Mark!”

 

“Ah, no. I wouldn’t call you _that_ ,” Cullen scoffed, meeting Adaar’s weary-worried gaze again. “You may not always bring _happy_ news, but you bring news we can _all_ use. And kind, you are, indeed, to bring it in person, even when it’d be easier for you to delegate such errands.”

 

Adaar’s smile faltered into a look of surprise and vulnerability, and Cullen was quick to glance away once more. At the letters Adaar still held out for him to take. He clenched his aching-icy-searing hand into a fist he could ill-afford to make. It wasn’t long before he was forced to release it, wincing as he took the limp pages from Adaar’s unsteady hand.

 

They were grubby and creased and seemingly worse for wear—even a bit scorched around the edges. Much like Adaar, himself. Cullen frowned at the letters and despite the desire to _know_ that burned through him, one need managed to burn far brighter. To do more than edge-out _Commander Cullen’s_ top priorities . . . and consume _Cullen Rutherford_ straight to his core.

 

“Are you . . . are you well, Inquisitor?” he asked, then flushed again, staring at Adaar’s right gauntlet. The arm, though clearly exhausted and still tremoring, seemed otherwise hale. Its counterpart, held gingerly and stiffly, did not. The observation made Cullen’s heart beat faster, but not in the usual way it did, where Adaar was concerned. “I know that’s an idiotic question, all things considered, but you . . . look a bit pale. And, er . . . blue-ish?” When Cullen sneaked a peek at his face, Adaar’s brow was _really_ furrowed. Cullen cleared his throat. “And there’s also the wheezing. . . .”

 

Adaar chuckled, but it, too, was accompanied by disturbingly audible and whistling wheezes. “Just a touch winded, I assure you, Commander. I’ll be fine after a bit of a lie-down on something that isn’t rocky earth! The amount of rough-camping I’ve done, lately, makes dozing off on Skully feel like the sleep of ages! On a four-post feather-bed, no less!”

 

As ever, at the mention of the Inquisitor’s . . . steed, Stabskull—the so-called “Bog Unicorn”—Cullen repressed a shudder, but only barely. Every reminder that undead _thing_ existed, never mind it being in-part responsible for keeping the man Cullen . . . for keeping _the Inquisitor_ alive and mobile, was . . . chilling.

 

Especially since the Inquisitor seemed determined to _not_ remove the bloody sword from the beast’s skull, instead insisting that the sword was somehow part of the necromancy keeping the creature animate.

 

(“Besides,” Adaar had said more than once, with a soft smile and a shrug. “I think Skully’s proud of it. Like it’s a . . . fancy little hat or bit of heraldry, or some such!”

 

And Cullen would always sigh and let the matter drop. He’d learned early-on that there were some things—odd and random things—on which Kaaras Adaar _would not_ be moved. Ever. And the bloody “Bog Unicorn” was one of them.)

 

“I’m no healer, Inquisitor, but pale, blue skin and wheezing, agonized breaths aren’t hallmarks of exhaustion and long hours in the saddle. Even when one is riding _your_ favorite . . . horse,” Cullen hinted, but hopefully with some subtlety. Adaar smiled again or tried to . . . the smile was as trembly as his right hand, which went to his chest, high on the left side. His fingers hovered just near his heart, without quite touching his mailed brigantine. “ _Have_ you been to see a healer, since your return, Kaaras?”

 

Adaar snorted, but even before he did, Cullen knew the answer to that question.

 

He knew _Adaar_.

 

“Has anyone ever told _you_ . . . you worry too much, Commander?” Adaar huffed and puffed out heavily, interspersed with chuffing, tired laughter. He blinked a few times and squinted at Cullen as if he couldn’t quite bring what he was seeing into focus. His face went from amused to dismayed and he bit his lip with absent consideration. “Er . . . not that I’m _complaining_ about such a delightful and gorgeous surplus, but . . . why’re there _three of you_ , Cullen?”

 

 _Three of me?_ Cullen also blinked a few times, his brows raising and lowering, and was still trying to make sense of the question, let alone formulate an appropriate answer, when the Inquisitor’s bleary eyes rolled back into his head and he dropped like a stone.

 

Cullen, despite his startlement, had the presence of mind to bellow for a healer—had, in fact, started shouting the moment Adaar had begun to sway.

 

As he listened for the sounds of hurrying feet, he held the Inquisitor’s long, tall— _solid_ —body up with a strength he’d never have guessed at. He bore Adaar’s lanky-but-dense frame with his own shorter, stockier one, even though he knew he’d pay for it later.

 

Over the sounds of his frantic shouting, Cullen could hear his own pounding heart and rushing breath. And he could _still_ hear Adaar’s frightening, awful wheezing growing briefly faster and deeper . . . then slower and slower and slower. . . .

 

#

 

Cullen Rutherford had always had a problem with “delegating” work, both as a concept and as a practice.

 

After all, was it not the height of laziness and complacency to have another do something one could do just as well, as time and circumstance permitted? And, as with every sector of humanity and any military, if one wanted something done exactly, one was best off doing it oneself.

 

Beyond all doubt.

 

Yet, in the twenty-six and three-quarters hours while Inquisitor Adaar slept and healed, Cullen Rutherford delegated every other aspect of his life that _wasn’t_ holding vigil at the Inquisitor’s bedside, chaffing the man’s long, large hand, and studying his proud, unusually still face. Twice, Knight-Captain Rylen stopped in, quiet and deferential, to deliver a preliminary round-up of the mission, then a final compilation of eyewitness accounts from regiment sergeants and lieutenants. Cullen made notes in the back of his distracted mind and grunted his acknowledgement, without shifting his gaze from Adaar's face. Eventually, the Knight-Captain saluted his way to the door after awkward, mumbled reassurances that may have been meant for Cullen, but were likely meant for Adaar.

 

Adaar, who laid so still, the rise and fall of his chest barely visible, his youth more glaring and apparent than ever it had been. . . .

 

Yet it wasn't the stillness and youth, but the _freckles_ that _really_ got to Cullen. They seemed so bright against the pale-gray of his pallor, that they looked like flecks of fresh blood. This similarity tipped Adaar’s customary boyishness over into uneasy and grim macabre. Especially since, grimness aside, Adaar looked barely old enough to shave, in his vulnerability. His bare, tapering-long-strong chest was extravagantly bruised, above the clean and tight white bandages wrapped around most of his torso. Like a negative rainbow, that bruising extended below the bandages, Cullen knew, all the way down Adaar’s abdomen and partway down his pelvis. It also radiated upward, nearly to his stark-prominent collarbone.

 

Even Adaar’s horns, curling and curving back and around, along the sides of his head—their-copper-plating glinting brightly in the dim lighting, but still not as bright as Adaar’s hair—seemed . . . smaller and frailer. Like decoration, rather than defense, and overcome even by Adaar’s light-blue pillows.

 

At first, the Inquisitor’s unconsciousness was natural—as natural as the state of near-death due to bruised and untreated ribs and lungs (especially the left ones) could be, anyway. Then, halfway through that interminable span, he started to wake, sluggish and feverish, thrashing and moaning, until he was dosed by a bellyful of potions, tonics, and elixirs to _keep_ him unconscious, anesthetized, and immobile through the pain of his lungs’ magically-accelerated healing.

 

It was another half-day of Adaar being dosed by the chief healer—a tiny, terse, no-nonsense Orlesian mage of dismayingly few years but reassuringly large acclaim—who’d initially been recommended to the Inquisition by no less than First Enchanter Vivienne de Fer.

 

She and her assistants were present the entire time, working around Cullen, except when they shooed him off to the lonely island of Adaar’s sofa. Finally, the dosing, with anything other than healing potions and pain relievers, was ended by the chief healer and then all the assistants but one sent away. The shift from Adaar’s anesthetized sleep into natural sleep was the difference between a soft, barely-visible breath in, and a sharp, almost shuddering one out.

 

That still, eerily expressionless face began to scrunch and furrow with discomfort and pain. And Cullen’s heart ached and yearned and _ached_ for Adaar, until the sun was nearly setting once more. With the dusk, Adaar seemed to relax again, his face smoothing and settling, his breathing becoming markedly less labored as the potions and spells got down to their business in earnest.

 

Through it all, Cullen had sat vigil, unspeaking and unmoving, unless he had to do either as required by the healers. By the time Adaar began to shift restlessly in preparation to wake, Senior Enchanter Veronique had only recently taken her leave at the bottom of the twenty-sixth hour. And with a promise to return at the bottom of the twenty-seventh. Several hours at least, she assured Cullen, before Adaar was likely to awaken.

 

As ever, confounding conventional wisdom and all expectation, Kaaras Adaar awoke less than one-quarter of an hour after the departure of healer and assistant.

 

Those lucid-lucent hazel eyes, ringed by distractingly long, red-gold lashes, immediately went to Cullen’s face, whereon they widened and, after several blinks, cleared and focused dramatically.

 

“ _Ma vhenan_ ,” he sighed, soft and slightly breathless, squinting as if Cullen was something too bright to see. Yet it was clear from the intensity of his stare that the Inquisitor wasn’t interested in looking anywhere else, just yet. “Hmm. Erm, ah, hullo, Cullen.”

 

“H-Hullo, Kaaras,” Cullen replied, husking and hoarse, as he leaned closer to Adaar’s bed. The scent of Salubrious Embriums, with which the Inquisitor’s vicinity had been festooned to promote healing and eased breathing, seemed to grow stronger . . . the gentle-pure scent waxing and waning in intensity, in time with the flicker and flash of Adaar’s serene-bright gaze.

 

Helpless to do anything else, Cullen leaned closer, still, even hitching the chair forward until his knees hit the bed-frame. He breathed in and in and _in_ for long moments, eyes closed on tears and every atom of him trembling. Trembling.

 

When he finally opened his eyes once more, Adaar was smiling at him, seeming even more wakeful and pleased. Cullen flushed and bowed his head with deference and respect—with _affection_ that was not in the least feigned or done out of duty. Then he sat back a little in his chair. It was Qunari-sized and cushioned. (Not just with attached ones. It’d also had several tossed-on cushions, as well. Cullen, unused to such softness in chairs, had finally— _temporarily_ , he’d assured himself—removed them. They now sat on the Inquisitor’s sofa, rank-and-file like infantry, among all the Inquisitor’s other cushions.

 

The man was something of a connoisseur, it was becoming clear.)

 

Cullen felt both cared-for and _protected_ by the chair after most of a day spent sitting in it. Secure. The chair felt the way Cullen had always imagined Adaar’s embrace might feel: encompassing and right. Safe.

 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, setting his right hand hesitantly, gingerly on the bed near Adaar’s bare shoulder, but only relatively so. He couldn’t feel the heat of the other man’s body, nor did he dare to get that close even with just his hand, no matter how well-intentioned and comforting the gesture.

 

Though Cullen was, after nearly two days of no sleep, far beyond the reserves it took to lie to himself about how badly he wanted to touch . . . even just to make certain Adaar was still real— _still here_. Of course, if that was all that necessitated Cullen’s desire to touch, and reassurance was all that resulted of such a liberty. . . .

 

But it wouldn’t be. It would _never_ be a mere bid for certainty and comfort. Not with Adaar. . . .

 

“I feel like there’s a golem sitting on my chest . . . after punching me in it repeatedly. Somethin’ . . . happened, I take it?” Adaar mumble-slurred around a cavernous yawn that made him and Cullen wince. When he was done, his shining, tired eyes settled on Cullen once more, and he _smiled once more_ , as if seeing the brightest, happiest sunrise any man ever had. “Last thing I r’member, I was en route to your office. All those bloody stairs and corridors. . . .”

 

Cullen also tried to smile, even as Adaar’s smile took over his heart and put it through its paces. Even as he noted and wondered at the half-familiar, musical lilt coloring Adaar’s Free Marches drawl. It reminded Cullen of somewhere . . . or _someone_ , perhaps, that wasn’t Free Marches—and wasn’t _Adaar_ —at all. “You _did_ , indeed, brave those staircases and halls, to arrive at my office with alacrity, Inquisitor. Only to make your departure with your usual panache and fanfare,” he reassured the dazed and bemused mage. But in a voice which was shaking and strange . . . mirroring the no doubt ghastly smile on Cullen’s face. “You dropped like a bucket full of stones into a well.”

 

“’Course, I did,” Adaar said, huffing a little before closing his eyes for a few moments and smiling. When his bright gaze settled on Cullen once more, that smile widened again . . . then faltered. “The letters . . . the ones from Sahrnia. . . .”

 

 _It’s definitely not a common Free Marches accent,_ Cullen’s brooding, wandering, exhausted mind informed him, _but not_ so _different from what one might hear near Starkhaven or Tantervale, and environs. Too soft and melodic, for that, as well, though. As if the words are really musical notes and speaking is really singing. Hard, long R’s, rounded vowels, upward-tending lilt that’s especially obvious and particular at the ends of his sentences . . . where do I know that accent from? Who is it you speak like, Inquisitor? And_ why _is it only when you’re too tired and too injured to hide it?_

 

Cullen sighed, shaking his head at his own sleep-deprived fancies and obsession with minutiae. He looked down at Adaar’s left hand, wanting nothing more than to take it and _hold_ it—both to give and receive comfort—as he had during the day prior. But he’d let go when Adaar had begun stirring, and now had both naked- and chilled-feeling hands resting on his lap. “I’ve been reading the correspondence you found at the Quarry, Inquisitor. It . . . it seems that Samson is . . . making red lyrium from people. Hmph. _There’s_ a sentence that never sounds less evil and insane with repeating. Whether aloud or to oneself.”

 

Adaar’s brow furrowed and his face paled even more, washed out by his vivid freckles, and his bright, beaten-copper hair and horns, showcased on the light-blue pillowcase like found treasure.

 

“I’m so sorry, Cullen,” he said, his voice thick with frustration and that lilting accent, his hand and fingers twitching restlessly on the quilt. Cullen _really_ had to fight himself not to take that hand. To not hold it in both his own, pressed to his cheek and his heart alternately, while he, himself, simply breathed and rested. “But I made sure that he won’t be making anything out of _anyone_ , anymore. I’d have died before I let that abomination continue—let it hurt you or those Templars any longer.”

 

“And you nearly did.” Cullen met Adaar’s fierce, unshielded, questioning gaze. “I’ve corroborated reports from my soldiers—who all, by the way, now speak of you with the sort of awe and worship I’ve seen reserved only for Andraste, King Calenhad, and Emperor Drakon I—that a Horror sewed a trap of red lyrium around you. After you waded into a dead-end skirmish to defend the remaining seven of what _had_ been a _full regiment_ of pike-men, from a squadron of Red Templars . . . and a _Behemoth_. A bloody Behemoth. _Maker_ , Kaaras. . . .”

 

“Was I supposed to let them _die_ , then? At the hands of that _thing_?” Adaar demanded, his eyes and face now fierce in an entirely different way. That not-Free Marches accent was thicker than a mere lilt, now. _Had_ it indeed been more like the accent near Starkhaven, Cullen would’ve termed it a _brogue_. “Was I supposed to twiddle my thumbs and whistle, whilst they screamed and were torn to pieces?”

 

“If that was what it took to safeguard _your_ life, yes.  You were,” Cullen said quietly. The shock on Adaar’s face was . . . painful. To Cullen, it seemed akin to disillusionment. And disappointment. “There are literally some thousands of pike-men under our banner, Inquisitor, with more flocking to our cause every day. But there’s only one _you_.”

 

Kaaras’s face screwed into a brief, but glowering snarl. “I _don’t_ need good people to die just to protect _my_ precious self, Cullen! I’ve had far too much of that as it is. It’s the foundation of my bloody _life_ , and I refuse to stand for it if there’s something I can do to prevent it!”

 

“There may come a time when you _can’t—and Sahrnia was almost that time!_ ” Cullen glowered and snarled right back . . . then shook his head and closed his tired eyes tight for a few moments. “You are a brave and devoted leader. The Inquisition—each and every person of it—knows this and is strengthened by it. But they _also_ need to know that even if _they_ die, there’ll still be a chance that everyone else _won’t_. _You_ are that chance, Inquisitor. The _only_ chance.”

 

Adaar’s scowl grew even more fierce, but there was anguish below that . . . and guilt. “I won’t stand by and let _my people_ die without coming to their aid and defense. Once I do that—once a leader starts seeing not his people, but _acceptable_ losses and collateral damages . . . whatever _good_ those soldiers are dying for is lost. _Utterly lost. Tell me_ you see that, Cullen?”

 

Adaar’s pleading struck at the heart of him, like lightning at the summit of a mountain, but Cullen didn’t let it show. He couldn’t afford to. Adaar’s strength as a leader—and as a man—came from the greatness of his heart, from his loyalty and kindness and concern. _Cullen’s_ strength as a leader came from another place . . . a place of strategy and numbers, and weighing risk against risk.

 

Life against life.

 

And though it came increasingly from a place of selfishness and personal need, too—rather than cool, practical logic—Cullen had weighed and found _no life_ as valuable as Kaaras Adaar’s. Not even close.

 

Some hundreds of lives stacked end-on-end would not come close to equaling the life of _Kaaras Adaar_ , in Cullen’s eyes.

 

“What I see, Inquisitor, is what was reported to me as I sat by your bedside for the past day,” Cullen gritted out, trying to school both voice and face into the epitome of dispassionate and irrefutable reason. “That you would be dead, but for the advent of The Iron Bull cutting his way through that red lyrium-trap—barely in time—and then rushing in with the Chargers to take on the Red Templars while Dorian Pavus fended off the Behemoth. By which point, another three of the pike-men were dead, the final four flagging, and _you_ were down and defenseless from a blow to the chest that would’ve _killed_ a human instantly. As it was, said blow wound up nearly killing you several days later! Not to mention that many of our people almost died, as well, rushing in to rescue you from a situation in which _you should never_ have put yourself!”

 

A maelstrom of emotion flickered and flew across Adaar’s emotive face, none staying for longer than it took for Cullen to register it. But finally, Adaar, too, schooled his face. Not well—he was too sincere and earnest . . . too _genuine_ to really be good at such—but well enough that Cullen couldn’t read him beyond the rallying of that stubborn nature and the shielding of some _wounded_ facet—pride, perhaps.

 

“I will _never_ ask of any member of this Inquisition, something that I wouldn’t, myself, give in return. And that includes my time, my protection, and _my life_ , if necessary.” Adaar’s hard, hurt gaze drifted away, to one of his many shelves of books. “But I _do_ apologize for my injury taking you away from your duties—I know there are many. You . . . probably have quite the mountain of work waiting on your desk, after a day away, even without this news about Samson and the red lyrium. So, I shan’t keep you any longer, Commander. Thank you, for . . . sitting with me all this time, until I awoke.”

 

Still too upset and frustrated to be stung by Adaar’s cool and dismissive tone, and the return of the usual easy drawl—he’d rather liked that not-Free Marches brogue—Cullen spoke freely and bluntly before he could stop himself. “There’re _always_ mountains of work, _Inquisitor_ , as you well know. But there’s only one _you_. And I— _we_ nearly lost him! Do _you_ not see the problem of that?”

 

“I assure you, Commander, there’s not a moment in which I _don’t_ see problems. In which I don’t see my _responsibilities_. I’m well-aware of my duty to Thedas, as the only person who can seal the Rifts and the bloody Breach. So, yes, I’ll do my best to stay alive and useful, until my utility is at an end. You’ve my word on that.” Adaar’s voice was stiff and flat, his normally mobile mouth pinched and grim. Cullen’s growing irritation suddenly fountained into _rage_ as he stared at Adaar’s scraped, angular, _adamant_ profile. There was ruddy-golden stubble speckling the line of his jaw and below his slightly drawn cheek.

 

Even as Cullen was taken by a powerful wave of tenderness, affection, and _gratitude_ , every bit of temper, frustration, and exasperation in him balanced precariously on the tip of his tongue. It was ready and trembling to be leveled at this contrary, _impossible_ champion, and the immature dismissal of Cullen’s and _everyone’s_ very valid concerns for said champion’s health and safety.

 

But Adaar’s mulish-stoic profile suddenly relaxed—or fell, rather—into lines of weariness and sadness as he sighed, and closed his eyes.

 

“I . . . apologize for my tone just now, Commander. I’m . . . sorry. There’s no excuse for and no call for _me_ to be cross with _you_. I’m simply . . . tired and achy, and that makes it difficult to be less of an arsehole. Plus, I’m no doubt dosed to the eyelids on bloody sleeping and pain draughts, and thus my tongue is significantly loosened.” Adaar sighed again, turning his face back toward Cullen’s slowly. He opened his eyes and as ever, they were bright and compelling, but shining with his own frustration and fears. “I understand why you’re angry that I didn’t . . . that I’m _not_ taking care of myself as I should. And you’re right to be. People are depending upon me, and I . . . I apparently can’t be arsed to keep myself running at whatever passes for _adequate_ , let alone _optimal_. _You’re right_ : the man with the Mark _must_ be more careful until that Mark is no longer needed. _I_ must be more careful. And that includes not ignoring when I’m . . . unwell. Denial of these things serves no one, least of all the people who need me and _trust me_ to keep going until Thedas is safe.”

 

Cullen gaped, then hung and shook his head as his anger was replaced by something with softer edges. Which then went softer, still, with a more poignant yearning than Cullen was used to. With regret and a melancholy sort of joy that he hadn’t yet lost another person he admired and . . . loved. For Cullen couldn’t imagine going on in this world _even one day_ past the moment where the life of that person— _this_ person— _Kaaras_ —was lost. “Inquisitor . . . Kaaras. . . .”

 

“ _Please_ . . . forgive me, Cullen?”

 

Eyes widening as he looked up and met Adaar’s frantic, teary gaze, Cullen swallowed and blinked. “Inquisitor, I—”

 

“There’re a lot of things I can bear, if needs must, I’ve discovered. But your enmity, your disgust . . . or just your disappointment is . . . a prospect that I can’t entertain even in the abstract. As is your . . . absence.” Adaar’s face crinkled a bit and he sniffled. Then swore when tears welled in his eyes and rolled down his ashen cheeks. But he held Cullen’s gaze with his usual simple, but elegant bravery. “Stay? Even if it’s just to take me to task . . . stay? I don’t even care if you only stay with the Inquisition _simply_ to make sure _I_ don’t bollocks it to the hilt and destroy the world in the process. Just—please don’t go, Cullen. Please, stay? Don’t . . . don’t leave me alone.”

 

As Cullen stared, his mouth working in silent non-words, Adaar lifted his hand up off his quilt and offered it to Cullen, as if it was heavy. It was certainly trembling, though only minutely, now. Cullen, however, found _any_ trembling alarming and unacceptable.

 

He took Adaar’s chilly hand in both of his for-once warm ones, and squeezed gently, his eyes locked on Adaar’s long, blunt-tipped, but clever fingers.

 

“I . . . _we all_ could’ve lost you yesterday. We could lose you any day and at any minute, but _yesterday_ was . . . far too close. _Sahrnia_ was far too close.” Cullen met Adaar's wide, starry-urgent-defenseless eyes. They seemed huge in his wan, young face. “Nearly losing you . . . was almost more than I could bear, Kaaras. And not because the world, or the millions of lives on it hang in the balance. There was only _one life_ that mattered to me in those awful moments. Only one. Even though such a sentiment is the height of selfishness and hypocrisy, it is what it is. So, I ask you as one f-friend to another: _do better_ at taking care of a life I value far more than anyone else’s . . . including my own.”

 

Adaar’s eyes were round and stricken, but far from upset, or even displeased. “I . . . _I apologize_ , Commander, from the depths of my heart. I shall take better care in future. _On my honor_.”

 

“Thank you.” Cullen’s smile was limp and faded quickly. “Though . . . none of what I said was meant to wring apologies or guilt from you, Inquisitor. Not at all.”

 

Adaar’s eyes seemed to widen, from saucers to platters, flickering greeny-gold and golden-brown in the light of the bedside lamp. “Then . . . what _had_ you hoped to wring from me with such . . . powerful and eloquent candor?”

 

Cullen shored up his fading smile into a wry near-smirk. “Though I would not term it ‘hope,’ I was . . . determined that you know. That not another moment goes by without you knowing that—first and foremost—you, Kaaras Adaar, have my deepest respect, my unwavering admiration, and my sincerest affection. And _your loss_ would destroy _me_ —Cullen Rutherford—as surely as the loss of _the Inquisitor_ would destroy the world, soon after. You . . . are a dear friend. I simply wish you to know that. And knowing, perhaps have a little extra care for yourself.”

 

Still wide-eyed, Adaar nodded once and smiled a tremulous, small version of his usual beaming smile. But it was warm and bright and _beautiful_ , and—for Cullen—more than enough.

 

“I’ll take more care, Cullen. I promise,” Adaar said, blinking away a few final tears. Then his smile widened a bit more and firmed up. “Though, I’ll ask that you stay a while, now, and provide me with a good example for looking after . . . me. I haven’t the slightest idea how to go about that, really. Never have.”

 

Cullen snorted and squeezed Adaar’s hand again. It was finally starting to warm up. “ _That much_ is obvious, Inquisitor. But rest assured: I have no intention of leaving your side, just yet. You’re stuck with me. At least until you fall asleep, that is.”

 

“I shall have to see about staying awake forever, then,” Adaar murmured, though it turned into a yawn, halfway through. His eyelids started fluttering, all long sweeps of ginger-gold lashes . . . then he hummed happily, sleepily, his eyes finally shutting again. “Top of my bloody agenda, that.”

 

The lilt had crept back in a bit. Adaar’s “bloody” was more like “bluidee,” and Cullen chuckled and smiled, unsuccessfully blinking away his own trebled vision for a couple minutes.

 

Adaar was breathing deeply—but with far less wheezing—soon after, and Cullen . . . still staring down at Adaar’s young, freckled, scratched-and-scraped face, let out what was meant to be a sigh, but sounded more like a broken and broken-hearted sob.

 

As he was swept out to sea by feelings of fear and apprehension, relief and gratitude— _he’s still here with me . . . I haven’t yet lost him_ —he clutched Adaar’s lax hand tight and to his heart.

 

In the privacy of Adaar’s cluttered, dimly-lit bedroom, Cullen Rutherford hung his head and wept. For the first time since the aftermath of Kinloch—when memories of his torture at the hands of demons had still been as vivid and powerful as a cold breath on the back of his neck—Cullen wept. Later, nearer the rising of the sun, Cullen would pray . . . would bare his soul and hopes and selfish wishes to Andraste. Would ask that she continue to intercede with the Maker on behalf of her headstrong, fearless Herald. That Kaaras Adaar would _always_ be graced with luck and strength and that fierce, unbowed determination to _keep going_.

 

Cullen didn’t know what he’d do if _Kaaras Adaar ever stopped_. . . .

 

 _Later_ , when he was at last emptied and numb, yes, he would pray for all the greedy, silly things he’d never dared to before. But for now . . . _for now_ , he simply held Adaar’s warm hand to his rabbiting, agonized heart and wept.


	3. (SELF-)ISOLATION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: The Inquisitor recovers, and Cullen finds it satisfying (and Dorian Pavus has his own opinions on why _that_ is). Further along the “Before the Dawn”-quest, at the Shrine of Dumat, Cullen reunites briefly with a painful piece of his past. Deepening loss and regret weigh heavily on his shoulders, while renewed dedication and resolve take root in his heart. His determination, resolve, and obsession with righting the wrongs of his lifetime are as flames eternally fanned, and beyond _that_. . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes/Warnings: Cullen Rutherford POV. LYRIUM ADDICTION/WITHDRAWAL. Mentions of violence. Mentions of and recovery from life-threatening injuries. Angst, feels, repression, pining, and altered mental states. Minor Character death. Gratuitous nug-naming. SPOILERS for the BtD quest.

**(SELF-)ISOLATION**

 

_*Every little key unlocks the door._

_Every little secret has a lie._

_Tryna take a picture of the sun. . . ._

_And it won't help you to see the light._

 

They’d sectioned off a rough circle in an infrequently-used bit of courtyard and were sparring. Lightly, and ostensibly to get Adaar back into fighting trim.

 

After nearly a month of convalescence and recuperation from his bruised lungs and ribs—and the pesky-negligible case of nearly-died-in-my-Commander’s-arms that’d accompanied them—Adaar was all bounce and bubble and buoyance. _All over the place_ as he danced around and feinted at a calm, implacable, saintedly patient Iron Bull.

 

Thus far, but for a bit of windedness and some apparent stiffness, Adaar was holding his own quite well against Bull’s carefully tailored and measured offensives. With no other lingering ill effects from his injury. Thus far.

 

“Eugh! Dreadful, isn’t it?”

 

Cullen had heard Dorian Pavus’ approach several minutes ago and now glanced over at the mage, who was settling to Cullen’s left and leaning on the stone ledge of the parapet. Skyhold was lousy with such architectural mainstays, but this one, as far as Cullen was concerned, offered the _best_ view, for the next little while.

 

And like Cullen had been until moments ago, Dorian was staring down at that view . . . at the two Vashoth Qunari far below. As ever, the man looked perfectly at-ease and pulled-together. Resplendent, after a fashion—a _Minrathous_ fashion, surely—in tightly-fitted black trousers and a blousy lavender shirt: with golden glitter and silver sequins on the former, and a trailer of attached silk scarf and bared left shoulder on the latter.

 

Snorting, Cullen returned his gaze to the scene below.

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he mused quietly, but with pride. “Watching the Inquisitor regain his strength is . . . rather satisfying, I find.”

 

“Of course, you do, Commander.” Dorian’s sidewise glance was tangible and very amused. “The view _is_ certainly inspiring! However, _that’s_ not what I meant by ‘dreadful.’”

 

Cullen flushed, but didn’t respond, other than to lean over the parapet a bit more as Adaar tried to best Bull with a basic throw that Bull quickly and easily turned against the younger, leaner, less-experienced fighter, and put Adaar on his back in moments. Cullen frowned and leaned even further out, as if to give aid to the Inquisitor, but the other man was soon on his feet again, bouncing and “dancing” around the circle. Feinting, shit-talking, and chirping as bright as any bird about the match, itself: his own iffy form and strength, Bull’s speed and power. The occasional semi-wild nug that wandered into view, then back out again as it grew bored.

 

Adaar was, from the snippets Cullen managed to catch being up so high, _naming_ the nugs. After previous Divines of the Southern Chantry.

 

“SAVE ME, DIVINE GALATEA!!!!!” he bellowed at a frantically retreating nug, as Bull pinned him—again—with a victorious grunt. “DON’T ABANDON ME TO THIS HEATHEN’S MERCY, YOUR WORSHIP!!!!”

 

“Less yammering, more violence!” Bull shouted, then got his wish as Adaar—not as quick as he normally was, but still breathtakingly fast for someone who was nearly seven feet of lean, but not inconsiderable muscle, lashed to dense, sturdy bone—turned the tables. In short order, Adaar had managed to not only get Bull on the ground, but two-thirds of that ground was outside the demarcated circle.

 

Cullen smiled at this win, his heart soaring ridiculously.

 

Whooping, Adaar staggered and swayed his way upright, both arms raised in success. In the bright, mid-morning light, sweaty and shirtless, all rippling muscle and gape-worthy definition, he looked every inch the conquering hero. His breeches, of old, worn grey leather, scuffed and patched, rode low on narrow hips. A light trail of ginger-gold hair glinted just above the fastening of those breeches. (Cullen didn’t know if his eyesight was just that good or if the oft-turned pages of his hoarded memories of a shirtless Adaar were simply informing his vision.) Rising proudly above Adaar’s grinning, gorgeous face his curling, copper-plated horns gleamed and flashed in the sun, though seemingly not as bright as the fly-away locks from the coming-unbraided ponytail below them.

 

“Yes!” the Inquisitor declared, gasping and laughing. His voice rang clarion-clear off ground, castle, and sky, nonetheless. “Bear witness, all! Your Inquisitor has slain this mighty bea—”

 

But that was as far as he got, as Bull—disturbingly quick and agile, himself—rushed Adaar with a friendly, but somewhat bloodcurdling roar, tackling him with a blunt sound of impact that made Cullen flinch and worry. Adaar simply yelped as he went down in a flail of gangly limbs and wild guffaws. Then, the two Vashoth began happily pummeling and grappling with each other like a back-alley free-for-all. With mostly-pulled punches that would have sent a human to a healer sharpish. Or to the afterlife.

 

“OH, MOST HOLY JUSTINIAS, THREE THROUGH FIVE, WHERE, NOW, IS YOUR MARTIAL BLESSING WHEN YOUR BROTHER-IN-FAITH NEEDS IT MOST?” Adaar bleated, one bare, dirty arm flung out to a last trio of remaining nugs, which watched curiously from behind a rain-barrel, then scurried off after their brethren. Cullen could hear The Iron Bull’s aggrieved grumbling and admonishments—and power-packed punches—to the giggling Inquisitor even from this distance, and. . . .

 

. . . his heart sighed. Simply sighed.

 

“If you lean any further out, my incautious Commander, you’ll force dear Kaaras, and that ham-handed lummox sitting on him to scramble and try to catch you as you plummet! Or the former to have to write an unexpected eulogy for you,” Dorian added with feigned pensiveness. “I would, of course, be there to help him write it, but even so, his planned speeches always manage to be _awful_ , somehow. Full of _painful_ mixed metaphors and random double-negatives! Such a tragedy, the sweet, simple sod!”

 

“Dorian,” Cullen said again, but quietly, gone from distant tolerance to irritable and grated-upon in seconds. When he glanced over at the mage once more, it was to see him with his hands held up peaceably, a knowing smile on his ridiculously handsome face.

 

Sighing again, Cullen pointedly turned his eyes from Dorian Pavus back to the match-up below. Adaar and Bull were both laughing, now . . . though Bull, sitting serenely as he was on Adaar’s legs, probably had more obvious reason to be so amused.

 

But even covered in courtyard dirt and thirty-stone of unmovable former-Ben Hassrath, Kaaras Adaar seemed to shine like the sun-come-to-Thedas.

 

“Oh, Commander, you are painfully reticent and sweet! My teeth are rotting and about to fall out as I stand here!” Dorian exclaimed blithely. Cullen repressed a groan and maintained his composure.

 

“I should return to my duties. Good day, _serah_ ,” Cullen gritted, preparing himself to abandon the glorious, laughing—half-clothed—sight of the Inquisitor with his many cares put briefly aside. It was time, alas, for _Cullen_ to take up his own cares, yet again.

 

Dorian’s mocking, bitchy-spiteful amusement followed him hence—lingering in his ears and the back of his mind until well after he’d reached his office and shouldered those cares once more.

 

#

 

“Knock-knock?”

 

Cullen looked up from the creased and oft-reread letters obtained at Sahrnia. The Inquisitor was, as he so often did, poking his head in Cullen’s slightly ajar office door, and smiling that crooked-hopeful smile.

 

“Am I interrupting _urgent_ brooding, or just the regular kind?” he asked as Cullen’s heart tripped over itself, trying to decide whether it was speeding up, skipping beats, or stopping altogether. Cullen blushed, and smiled rather mirthlessly as he put down the letters with hands that shook and ached, despite being markedly numb. _Cold_.

 

“Is there a designation beyond _urgent_? Yet not quite as high as _apocalyptic_?” he asked, rubbing his exhausted, dry eyes and squinting as the Inquisitor let himself in and closed the door behind him. Late afternoon sunlight from the windows behind Cullen’s desk winked off his horns and hair, like sparks and flashes of ruddy fire. That same sunlight slanted off his eyes and rendered them a pure, warm gold.

 

“I’m certain there is, but Leliana would know better than either of _us_. Our Spymaster has a term and code for every situation, contingency, and eventuality,” Adaar said, both wry and fond. Cullen snorted then sighed, sitting back in his chair for a few moments before standing respectfully. But between the sheer despair of having spent weeks frequently rereading the found letters and being nose-deep in his duties for longer and longer days, Cullen was too weary and achy to bear even his own weight for long. He wound up leaning on the edge of his desk with a tired grunt.

 

“I knew Samson had fallen, Inquisitor, but this . . . this is beyond monstrous.” Every joint in Cullen’s hands seemed to twinge then flare with a dull-aching burn. He loosened his clench on the desk-edge with a sigh. “He must be stopped. We _must_ put an end to him.”

 

“He _will_ be stopped. And _we’ll_ be the ones to do it, Commander,” Adaar promised, steely and final. _Certain_ , and when Cullen lifted his gaze from the letters, all wariness and hope—guilt and desperation—Adaar’s smile returned, reassuring and steadfast as any oath. “Properly, and for keeps. You’ve my word on that.”

 

“That armor of his . . . just based on what’s in these letters, it must give him extraordinary power. I fear that we may not, even now, be able to stop him, so long as he possess it,” Cullen admitted in a near-whisper. Adaar’s smile faded and his gaze turned fierce.

 

“ _Take away_ that bloody armor and the lyrium, and Samson’s just another man, Cullen,” he declared, firm and undaunted. As ever he was. “We have the best Arcanist in Thedas on our side, working to crack that armor in every sense of the term. This is a fight Samson and Corypheus _will not win_.”

 

Cullen sighed, then smiled just a little. “You’re correct about Dagna, at least. She crafts the impossible every day. And though I don’t _understand_ most of her ideas and theories on . . . anything, they certainly _sound_ plausible? And _very_ well thought-out.”

 

“Indeed. We’re lucky she’s on our side.” Adaar agreed, crossing his arms and laughing. Cullen joined him, amused and a bit reassured, but still half-mired in his own brooding thoughts.

 

As he had been for many months, he still ceaselessly tried to reconcile the two Samsons who existed for him. The Templar Cullen had once roomed with and begun to consider an older brother. A fellow watchman and warden of a Circle of Magi, just as Cullen had been. But one with enough heart and core-deep kindness to smuggle love letters from a cheeky-daft, heartsore _mage_ to his beloved. Flouting more rules and regulations than even _Cullen_ could have recited, to do so.

 

 _That Samson_ had been the beginning—the first inkling—of Cullen’s compassion toward mages. The inception of Cullen’s own consciousness of himself and of his thus-far-inadequate approximation of _true_ humanity.

 

Now, _that same man_ had become a second Samson. A darker, irredeemable Samson. He’d signed on with Corypheus—one of the Tevinter Magisters who’d crossed physically into the Fade, tainting the Golden City, as well as themselves, and bringing about a thousand years of Blights, darkspawn, Archdemons, and chaos on Thedas—and addicted and enslaved his own brethren, _other Templars_ , to red lyrium. Knowingly _destroyed them_ , body, mind, and spirit because a monster with aspirations of godhood promised him power and purpose.

 

And lyrium, of course: Samson’s truest master for most of his life since being recruited to the Templars.

 

Even now, Cullen could see, though he wished he didn’t, that even Samson’s heinous path had been ordained by the very Order that had made him—the Order that had been meant to stand for righteousness and justice. Had Samson not been thrown out of that Order for smuggling bloody _love letters_ —tossed onto the street with nothing but the clothes and lyrium-monkey on his back—left to beg and scrounge, and fester with bitterness and hatred that weren’t at all unwarranted. . . .

 

 _Had the Templar Order been as righteous and just as it’d dared to claim_ , the Samson who was Corypheus’ feared lieutenant and the near-indestructible general of the Red Templars would never have come to be.

 

Thus, the Templar Order was culpable in this entire mess. And Cullen, as Samson’s former friend and colleague—as a former Templar, himself—was also culpable. His sympathies, stuffed-down and unacted upon as they’d been, for fear of and clinging to the corrupted leadership of Knight-Commander Meredith, did not exempt him from his responsibility to act rightly. They never had and never would.

 

Samson was a monster of _Cullen’s_ making, as much as he was a monster of the Order’s making. As much as he was of Corypheus’ making . . . and his own. And now that there was a chance to stop the monster . . . Cullen _would not_ be silent and still again.

 

This travesty and tragedy would at last _end_. Not that that would lighten Cullen’s guilt or burden, but at least others wouldn’t continue to suffer. To bleed and die for the mistakes of those who’d sworn to protect them, but had lost the mission . . . if ever they’d had it. . . .

 

“We _will_ stop him, Cullen,” Adaar promised, snapping Cullen out of his brooding. Cullen wasn’t sure how long he’d been drifting in his own melancholy and guilt, but he was fairly certain Adaar had fallen silent for some minutes before making his promise.

 

Watching his surely tiresome Commander ruminate, and worrying for said Commander’s state, as ever he did.

 

The love that consumed Cullen’s heart—and his body and being— _burned_. Not entirely pleasantly, as was the case lately.

 

“I know we will, Inquisitor.” He managed to smile, as well as lie. And even though he was apparently successful at both—based on the brightness and optimism of Adaar’s big, crooked return-grin—that only made Cullen feel even worse. Made that burn feel less like yearning . . . and more like a taste of perdition.

 

# [Longing (With Occasional Small Lightnings)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13524471) #

 

“This place looks half-destroyed. . . .”

 

“ _Just_ half? My Vashoth friend, I’d truly _despair_ at seeing your idea of _total_ destruction!”

 

The Inquisitor’s and Dorian’s exchange was almost whispered in the dinning silence of the mostly-dead Shrine of Dumat, Samson’s lair and the heart of his command. All who’d attended, kept, and defended the Old God’s temple were dead, but for a few desperate pockets of resistance, here and there. But even distant sounds of fighting in the sprawling Shrine had grown few and far between by the time the Inquisitor ventured this observation.

 

Cullen, armored and with sword drawn—his usual duties at Skyhold put decidedly on-hold for the chance of accompanying the Inquisitor and bringing Samson down _at last_ —strode along at Adaar’s side, barely keeping himself from jumping in front of the wide-eyed, alert, but still recovering Inquisitor. Or shoving the other man behind him every few moments.

 

“Recovering nicely, and practically at full strength and mana,” wasn’t exactly: “Totally healed, at peak, and with enough mana to drop mountains on monsters!”

 

 _Not the same thing at all_ , Cullen realized grimly every few minutes. As he had been since the battle to close on the Shrine and the battle to take it had gotten under way. He’d barely moved from Adaar’s side since the first swords and staves were drawn. Losing sight of the Inquisitor for even a bare moment had made Cullen feel as if he was going panicky and mad in ways he’d never before experienced. Even though, as Adaar had more than adequately proven, whatever the Inquisitor’s _full_ strength and power normally were, at this point, they’d at least recovered enough to be back at what was usually _required_ of him in lengthier, slightly desperate battles.

 

 _Not_ at his full strength, power, and stamina, no. But certainly at his full determination and fortitude.

 

None of which made it any more bearable or desirable to be far from the other man, in the last, lingering lees of the injury received at Sahrnia. The instinct and urge to act as a human shield for Adaar only grew as they won their way deeper into the Shrine. And even when it became obvious that resistance to their presence was now over—the main arm of the Shrine’s defenses was dead, isolated and being brought-down, or had long since flown the site—that need to shield Adaar from the red lyrium and every attendant evil remained, and rooted.

 

That evil was a force Cullen was feeling like a steady string of hammer-blows. As any Templar, Cullen could hear the siren-song of nearby lyrium. But with red lyrium, that song was . . . deeper and louder. Rousing and numbing. Exaltation and ruination.

 

It beckoned and hummed. It promised and _sang_.

 

It bled.

 

It hooked its claws into Cullen’s mind and spirit and turned both brittle. And the fissures inherent to such besieged environs were already significant and _profound, without_ the help of red lyrium.

 

Like the other members of the Inquisitor’s current squad of peers and allies—Dorian Pavus, The Iron Bull, Sera, Varric, and First Enchanter Vivienne de Fer—Cullen was absolutely _battered_ : filthy, tired, and aching from the battle simply to get close to the Shrine, never mind the battle to take it. He was numbed to everything but keen anger and distant horror. He was covered in the corrupted blood and flesh of men and women who’d once been brothers-in-arms. Brothers-in- _purpose_.

 

He kept expecting Samson at every turn, and when _every turn_ refused to produce him, Cullen grew more and more anxious.

 

And more and more enraged.

 

Until they were, at last, at the heart of the Shrine, or so the mages in the group agreed, and it became inescapably obvious that there would be no Samson and quite likely no answers, nor even leads to either. All there was to see—and hear and smell—was bodies and burning.

 

“Samson must have ordered the Red Templars to sack his headquarters, so we couldn’t,” Cullen finally declared, frustrated and seeing literal red, thanks to all the tainted lyrium around them. He halted himself and thus the party, near a huge outcropping of red lyrium and the remains of tumbled columns and statuary. “We probably missed him by half a day. Probably less.”

 

From behind Cullen and Adaar and to their left, Sera snorted, relaxing the draw on her bow just enough that the release of tension in it could be heard distinctly in the ruined, burnt-out shrine. “Oi, pissy one, yeah? Wrecked all his toys and ran back to Coryphy-tits. Arse-biscuit.”

 

“Eh, I gotta agree with Buttercup, on this one. Sorry, Curly,” Varric said, kind and quiet and discreet, from behind Cullen and Adaar and to the _right_. “Someone tipped off _Ser_ Congeniality we were coming.”

 

Cullen sighed wearily, his anxiety increasing steadily as his anger fizzled out at speed. “I think you’re right, Varric. But still, we’ve dealt Samson a blow. And that . . . that _has_ to count for _something_.”

 

“How unusual and refreshing of you to express such an optimistic sentiment, my dear Ser Rutherford,” First Enchanter Vivienne commented from the rearguard of the party . . . casually, but with rather taut crispness. Her regard and attention were bent almost entirely on whatever magical energies she sensed about the Shrine, and she sounded neither pleased nor comfortable. The First Enchanter was a power-pack of a mage, like Adaar, but subtler and more agile regarding use. She was formidably conversant in magical theory, like Dorian Pavus, but was faster at integrating that theory with practice. Especially when it came to urgently needed defensive spells.

 

Cullen supposed one didn’t get to be a First Enchanter in any Circle—let alone an _Orlesian_ Circle—without being quick and well-rounded, knowledgeable and deft at _magic_ , as well as the many intricate levels of the Game.

 

Still, he was about to take his future self-esteem and pride in his own hands, and risk responding to Vivienne’s only mildly cutting salvo—with something unwisely snappish, despite knowing he wasn’t versed enough in any aspect of the Game to follow-through on challenging her on _her_ terms—when the Inquisitor looked up from his frowning study of a broken ceremonial tablet of some sort. It was engraved with Tevene so archaic, even Dorian would probably have to work to translate it.

 

His head tilted at a focused and listening angle, Adaar began walking again. Cullen scrambled to keep up with the taller man’s long, stalking stride. As Adaar—moving lightly ahead and around more fallen bits of masonry and foundation—seemed to be drawn on with little caution or pause, Cullen put on increasing speed to remain right at his back. He was rather put out that he couldn’t see much _beyond_ the Inquisitor, though, tall and broad-of-back as he was.

 

They passed into a set of central chambers in the Shrine. The heart of the heart, as it were. Here, all was muffled and dead-quiet. Rather, it seemed as if it _should have been_. The intrusion of the Inquisitor’s party brought noise and life that felt like sacrilege in this musty, sepulchral site. Even the quiet jingle-shift of Adaar’s brigantine and mail, and the creak of his leathers seemed incautiously loud in the now explosive silence. Cullen’s own armor also seemed quite talkative in these un-hallowed moments.

 

Behind them both, Sera and Varric were nearly noiseless. Dorian, between them, was only slightly less so.

 

The rearguard that was the First Enchanter and The Iron Bull might as well have been shadows for all the noise they made.

 

 _Jingle-clink, jingle-clink_ , went Adaar, soft as a breath and still far too noisy in this breath-held place.

 

“Inquisitor, you _must_ take more care,” Cullen hissed, almost under his breath, but certain Adaar could hear him, even if he was pretending not to. The younger man continued to stride purposefully toward the back of the third innermost, detritus-strewn room, eyes on whatever had caught his attention toward the back. Thankfully, despite the architectural chaos and destruction, there were no other bodies, whole or burned, human or otherwise, in _this_ central room. Not as far as an ever more exasperated Cullen could see, off to the sides and around Adaar’s back. “Kaaras, _please_ , remember your prom—”

 

“ _Mythal!_ That one’s _alive_!” Adaar exclaimed, breathless and sudden. Then he broke into a heedless jog toward what looked like a ruined, broken altar near the back wall. Behind that altar loomed an almost perfectly-preserved statue of a tall man in flowing robes. The face of the statue had been almost surgically removed from the hooded head, but otherwise, it was in remarkable repair for something so clearly ancient.

 

 _Dumat, I presume_ , Cullen thought with grim distaste, as he dashed after the Inquisitor. The man was unfairly fast for someone so bloody _tall_ —even someone who was virtually all legs.

 

It wasn’t until Adaar stopped a few yards before the altar, now grown strangely reluctant, that Cullen—also stopping, directly behind his superior and casting a jaundiced eye on all the red lyrium sprouting from the chamber walls—processed what Adaar had shouted. “Alive? What?”

 

But Adaar was moving closer to the altar again, one careful step at a time. Cullen followed, stepping to the side just a bit—but not too much, having no wish to get closer to the walls of red lyrium than he’d already had to in this awful place—to see what and who the Inquisitor was focused on.

 

Mere feet from the main altar, Adaar paused once more and this time, Cullen stepped around him, his arm brushing the Inquisitor’s as he did. The other man smelt, as usual, of leather and steel. But also, faintly of safety, healing, and comfort. Of gentility and wholesomeness. Of hope. Of _Embriums_ , still. . . .

 

Yet, even at the registering of this scent, the scent that meant that Adaar was safe and alive and _well_ , Cullen’s eyes fell upon the man sitting splayed and listless at the base of the night-black altar.

 

Shaven-headed and wearing robes that were all-too-familiar to Cullen, like a blast from his shattered past, a Tranquil mage watched them with pale-blue eyes that were also familiar. Cullen moved a little closer, still, his mind making connections despite its overwhelmed sense of horror and loss and betrayal.

 

“Hello, Inquisitor,” the Tranquil said, slow and labored, but cogent. His squinty-pale eyes—the sort that looked as if they should’ve always been brimming with laughter, and once had been—seemed to have a bit of trouble focusing on the Inquisitor’s face for a moment. But that did nothing to mitigate the self-trained half-smile all Tranquil habitually wore.

 

Adaar, head tilted in curiosity, and all but radiating his seemingly endless concern for others—even enemies—knelt before the Tranquil, scanning his face. Every few moments, his eyes ticked up to the sunburst symbol branded into the man’s forehead.

 

“You know me?” Adaar asked, kind and quiet, and the Tranquil’s smile widened just a bare tic. The pieces gathering in Cullen’s tired, overwrought mind and heart, fell together instantly.

 

“Andraste, shield me, it’s Maddox,” he heard fall from his numb lips as he stood, staring and stunned, at the Tranquil slumped before them. The blocky, bruiser’s face, with its twice-broken nose and that squinty-bemused, ice-blue gaze. . . .

_This was Maddox_.

 

Cullen fell to kneeling near Adaar, shaking his head and gaping. Past and present collided in his head and heart, like competing maelstroms of utter horror and perdition. “This is _Maddox_. Samson’s Tranquil. But something’s wrong. . . .” he searched the Tranquil’s— _Maddox’s_ —serene, still-smiling face. It was pale and getting paler. _Ashen_ , with his lips tinged a pale-blue. Just as Adaar’s had been right after Sahrnia, when he’d nearly died in Cullen’s arms. “ _Maker_ —I’ll send for a healer, Inquisitor—”

 

“That would be a waste, Knight-Captain Cullen,” Maddox said with neither rancor nor chiding as Cullen started to stand. It was, as was everything a Tranquil said, a simple statement of perceived fact, with no attendant emotions to muddle or mitigate it. “I drank my entire supply of blightcap-essence. It won’t be long, now.”

 

“We only wanted to ask you questions, Maddox!” Cullen said in a horrified, small voice, before the Inquisitor would have spoken. Even though he didn’t look away from Maddox’s bloodless face, he could feel Adaar’s curiosity and concern on his own. In the face of the chill that came with this outcome—yet another terrible thing Cullen _should_ have prevented—that warm regard felt as scorching as Hellfire. But Cullen at last felt as if he deserved it, now that it burned so agonizingly. “We just wanted to ask. . . .”

 

“Yes. That is what I could not allow.” Maddox paused, blinking once, slow and labored. “I destroyed the camp with fire. We all agreed it was best. Our deaths ensured that Samson had time to escape.”

 

“You . . . threw your lives away for Samson?” Cullen demanded, enraged and disgusted . . . and still so horrified, he was certain he’d be violently ill at any moment. “ _Why_ , Maddox?”

 

“Samson saved me even before he needed me,” Maddox said, as gentle and reassuring as everything he’d ever said since being made Tranquil for the crime of following his heart. “He gave me purpose again.”

 

Though Cullen hadn’t been able to prevent that tragedy surrounding the end of Maddox’s tenure as an active Circle mage, he’d certainly learned from it . . . yes, he had. And it hadn’t been too long after that, that Kirkwall and events surrounding the Mage Rebellion had made all temptation for Cullen to follow his own heart moot, anyway. After all, piles of cold ash rarely lead to anywhere worth going.

 

Cullen blinked back tears that were equal parts rage and despair as the dying Tranquil took a tiny, but rattling inhalation. His eyelids and lashes shuttered his eyes briefly.

 

“I . . . wanted to help,” he exhaled on a breath that caught. Soft, but final. And his passing from the world of the living into the Fade and Beyond was done. As gentle as a feather floating down to the ground, Maddox was no more. The unhurried droop of his splayed body was gentle and almost graceful, rather than the sudden, lifeless slump and drop Cullen might have expected.

 

Maddox’s shaven head didn’t loll toward his left side, so much as it slightly inclined that way—as if he was simply nodding off in his chair at the end of a long day—his empty-pale eyes only half-shuttered by this quiet departure.

 

Though cool in color, those eyes had once shone with such warmth and liveliness. With a friendly, cheeky-daft _spark_. Even years after Cullen had first reported to the Kirkwall Templars and Circle, he’d vividly recalled their shade, hue, and animation. Though never more so than right after Maddox had been made Tranquil. The difference between the before and after had been . . . _especially_ stark and horrifying in those early days.

 

But this, here and now, was somehow . . . far worse. _This_ . . . there was no coming back from and there never would be. Maddox had never deserved to be so permanently gone, let alone so soon. So _unnecessarily_. But he was. He was.

 

And thus, was another monstrous injustice laid at Samson’s door. And at Cullen’s.

 

Adaar sighed and bowed his head for several moments out of respect, but otherwise faced this death as he had all the others: with regret and resolve, but no fear.

 

“O, _Falon'Din_ ,” he murmured so softly, Cullen could barely hear the strange words. “ _Lethanavir_ —Friend to the Dead: Guide his feet and calm his soul. Lead him safely to his rest.” Adaar paused for a few heavy beats, then bowed his head once again, holding that prayerful-penitent pose. “ _Dareth shiral_ , Maddox of Kirkwall.”

 

Adaar fell silent again, then swore quietly. Cullen opened his mouth to ask why a Vashoth Qunari had said what’d _sounded_ like a . . . _Dalish_ prayer or rite for the dead. But instead, he heard a strange, animal-sound of grief and denial escape his own throat on one long, low note. Again, Adaar’s scorching gaze landed on him, worried and intent. Cullen could once more feel it, but he had eyes only for the remains of the Tranquil—the mage—the _man_ he’d once known . . . if only briefly, and from the vantage-point of being his jailor.

 

“Cullen?” Adaar murmured, firm and warm and . . . grounding. Or it might have been, if Cullen hadn’t gone so abominably dizzy and disoriented. If he wasn’t swaying and staggering as he stood on feet he could barely feel.

 

But, as ever, Adaar stood with him. Reached out to him—for him—and Cullen, _as ever_ , forced himself to turn away. He focused on a pulsing-glowing, yard-wide monolith of red lyrium, up-thrust from the wall to his left and rising to the height of a fair-sized oak. It hummed and beckoned, promised and _sang_ , louder than ever, like a choir of damned souls. It bled into the air and the _world_. The itch in Cullen’s mind and the splintering of his heart seemed to intensify and take deeper root. “If this is Samson’s idea of _remaking the world_ , Inquisitor, I far prefer yours.”

 

“Er . . . glad to hear it, as ever, Commander. But—”

 

“We . . . should check the camp. Maddox may have missed something. _Must have_ ,” Cullen insisted: grim, flat, and without other inflection. Despite that, he could sense Adaar’s concern grow, not abate. But he ignored it and stalked past the Inquisitor—past the destroyed altar and the destroyed Tranquil—weathering the silent and measuring regards of the party with a stoic affect.

 

“We _can’t_ leave him here, Cullen,” Adaar said in a soft voice that nonetheless carried and struck Cullen like a physical blow. He paused more to catch his breath and collect himself, than anything else. “He— _Maddox_ deserves to be laid to rest properly.”

 

 _Don’t we all, Inquisitor?_ “I’ll have someone take care of it, Your Worship. That, I swear. If even _Samson_ did his best for Maddox—or tried to—then . . . we can do no less.”

 

The approval of the Inquisitor—of their colleagues and allies, as well—followed Cullen toward the apse. As did the people, themselves, after some initial hesitation.

 

Cullen lead them quickly, but carefully into the vestry to the right of the apse. And from that innermost chamber a narrow, winding corridor took them away from Shrine’s heart. They moved quickly, but with an eye for traps and any leads that might have escaped destruction. They passed a few looted-empty chambers and two modest, falling-down auditoria—clear of all but their denuded architecture and crumbling furniture. As they went on, Cullen couldn’t help but to note the truest evidence of Templars-in-residence, no matter their preferred shade of lyrium.

 

Small _and_ large, licked-clean bottles and vials of the stuff lay everywhere. They crunched underfoot with almost every step, like walking on the brittle corpses of beetles. They gleamed dully in dusty corners, like light off lifeless eyes.

 

Such inescapable signs of addiction and ruination made Cullen shudder, and repress the thought that over the course of his life, he’d surely made his own impressive pile of the same. Enough to carpet his path from Honnleath to Kinloch, if not all the way to bloody Kirkwall. And that there, but for the intercession of Andraste and the forgiveness of the Maker. . . .

 

The second to last room along this corridor was fairly littered with hasty destruction. Some torn papers and correspondence were strewn about what may have once been an office for a high-ranking cleric of Dumat’s priesthood. But mostly, there was merely the remains of these things in the forms of confetti and ash. The only whole and untouched page was a message from Samson, left on the scorched and wobbling remains of a large, ancient desk. It was, despite its insane rambling, and references that only a Templar would understand—and no few that only _Cullen_ would understand—likely meant for the Inquisitor.

 

Adaar didn’t seem impressed by the content. Neither was Cullen, for that matter.

 

It wasn’t long before the corridor took them past burning floors and more balefully glowing, red lyrium-sprouting walls, to a hub, of sorts. Two grand staircases stood facing each other and leading upwards . . . east and west, respectively. There was, surprisingly, a workstation set up between the corridor entryway from which the party emerged, and the nearer corner of the west-leading stair and wall. Adaar instantly made for it, with Cullen alert and on his heels like a human Mabari. The rest of the party spread out without comment, searching the huge hub, moving cautiously between floor-blazes, pits in the stone, and the occasional Tranquil corpse.

 

Cullen squinted in the mirksome, smoke- and fume-heavy air—hand on his sword—and kept guard over the Inquisitor while he investigated the workstation, which consisted of two tables covered in burnt implements, and a tipped-over stool.

 

Moving even closer to Adaar, Cullen watched as the Inquisitor poked at scorched bits of parchment, most of which crumbled to ash at the suggestion of his touch. Also scorched, were strange bits and bobs made of metal. The Inquisitor ran his gloved fingertips across them, as well. These did _not_ crumble, and it was clear that though they were singed . . . they were whole. _Almost totally undamaged_. “The fire couldn’t destroy _those_ , it seems. Whatever they are.”

 

“This was his workspace,” Adaar mused, half to himself. Cullen frowned as he stared at the table of iron and steel . . . _tools_. His eye lingered where Adaar’s hand did: at an odd, persnickety-looking item the length of a very thin fork. It seemed to be a cross between a screwdriver, a spanner, and a saw, at one end. And that was only the more easily identifiable end of the thing. Adaar’s gloved fingertips hovered reluctantly over the spindly implement, then he rested his index finger dead in the center and shuddered.  “Yes. This was Maddox’s workspace.”

 

Cullen had to force himself to not take a step back whilst dragging Adaar with him. “Maddox’s? Are you . . . sure, Inquisitor?”

 

Adaar nodded sadly. “I can feel the enchantments on these tools and the memory of him in the steel. _These were his_. I can hear the echo of him and of the . . . the red lyrium with which he crafted his . . . inventions. Including Samson’s bloody armor.”

 

The penultimate word had obviously—to Cullen, anyway—wanted to be a brogue-rounded _bluidee_. That, and the disapproval and anger in Adaar’s low, smoke-raspy voice was clear and present. And it wasn’t aimed at the creator and owner of the scorched tools.

 

“Those are, indeed, lyrium-forging instruments—and of unique and remarkable design. If they’re still intact and serviceable, they're worth a fortune,” Dorian Pavus noted as he meandered over, close and curious on Adaar’s other side. He scanned the desk with all the acquisitive avarice of a crow about to commandeer some shiny glass button or other gewgaw.

 

First Enchanter Vivienne joined them hesitantly, her dark, serene face drawn in a displeased, but considering frown. Unlike Dorian, she kept a rather healthy distance from tools and tables, studying them for more than a minute before speaking. “The Inquisitor and _Serah_ Pavus are quite right, indeed, Commander. These were Maddox’s tools. I’ve seen similar implements for forging with lyrium. But none quite so . . . particular or refined. Or so advanced.”

 

Cullen grunted and nodded. “Tranquil often design their own tools, as necessity demands. These have no like or equal—no other master than their creator—in all of Thedas. We may rest assured. Without Maddox to divulge the secrets of his methods, we may never figure out if that armor of Samson’s has a weak-spot,” he concluded with bitter irony. Despite the exponentially increasing weight of his own failure and despair, Cullen otherwise kept his demeanor stoic and neutral as the three mages turned their attention to him.

 

“For the moment, perhaps. But Arcanist Dagna should be able to make sense of these. Ninety percent of utility is understanding how something works . . . and how it can be _made_ to work,” Adaar asserted, meeting Vivienne’s unreadable, dark gaze, then Dorian’s alert and stormy one, and finally Cullen’s. Adaar’s own golden-hazel eyes were an eerie red-orange in the infernal glow cast by fire and corrupted lyrium. “Maddox used these tools to make Samson's wretched armor. And I’d bet my soul and honor our Dagna could use them to _unmake_ it.”

 

“Hmm. If anyone can,” Vivienne allowed with simple and unusually sincere graciousness.

 

“In’t an end in sight, to what _that one_ can figure out and cook up!” Sera exclaimed, sly and wolfish, but nervous and discomfited under that. As they all were. Cullen darted his glance rightward, beyond the three mages. The Iron Bull was standing stock-still—bare, massive arms crossed over his bare, even more massive chest—looking both grim and dangerous. Sera was leaning against his right side as if he was another column . . . one that _wasn’t_ on fire or bristling with red lyrium. “It’s the widdles, yeah? Clever eyes and clever fingers. Always sneakin’ under your skin like rats in walls and under floorboards!”

 

Vivienne rolled her eyes—Cullen didn’t even have to look her way to know that—Dorian snorted, and Adaar simply said: “Mm,” in distracted, but tacit agreement. As he did, Cullen could feel the gentle-focused touch of his gaze and regard briefly. Only for long enough to inspire a blush, but not long enough to see the result of said inspiration.

 

Or so Cullen hoped, as he cleared his throat and avoided meeting anyone’s gaze. His own settled on Maddox’s workstation. On the tools the Tranquil mage had created to further Samson and his wicked cause. Turning his mind deliberately back to the matter at hand, to what the Inquisitor had said about Arcanist Dagna being able to unmake Samson’s—literally—bloody armor. . . .

 

Thus, unmaking bloody _Samson_ . . . the ruined, shambles of a person, finally become more monster than human being. And still the only soul who’d ever stuck by Maddox until the end. Took care of him, after a fashion, and gave him a use and a purpose: the only two things Tranquil seemed to desire in their distant, under-expressed way.

 

 _Right and wrong_ had likely not even entered Maddox’s focused, winnowed-down perception. Utility and purpose—becoming an adaptable tool to aid his only friend—had been their own ends. Had been . . . enough.

 

It was long, tense, and expectant minutes while Cullen turned these thoughts over, his upset and regrets turning back to anger and rue. Silence, but for the crackle of floor-flames and the distant echo of the entire Shrine and compound being secured, reigned until Adaar broke it. “We have him. _At last_.” His large hand was steadying on Cullen’s stiff, armored shoulder and his eyes were intent, but gentle when Cullen managed to meet them.

 

“Yes, Inquisitor.” Cullen’s brief, mirthless twitch of a smile felt more like the final grimace of a justly-hanged criminal. “At last.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [ThreeWhiskeyLunch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch/pseuds/ThreeWhiskeyLunch) for inspiring the nugs-and-sparring passage. It's my favorite piece of the entire fic and it wouldn't exist at all without Whiskey's creative input and cheerleading!
> 
> Also, clicky below for the best, sweetest, most scorching-hot Zevran Arainai/Male Warden fic you'll ever read:
> 
> [Dorzê](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13628034) <3


	4. HOPE, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the Shrine of Dumat. Dagna = ALL THE MAGIC. Cullen = ALL THE MISERY AND UNCERTAINTY. Withdrawal pains and addiction-pangs. Personal and professional distances. Fancy, glowing coasters. Cassandra doesn’t take any of Cullen’s high-strung whinging and angst. "HOPE, Part II" goes up tomorrow morning (02.22.2018).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes/Warnings: Cullen Rutherford POV. LYRIUM ADDICTION/WITHDRAWAL. Angst, feels, banter, dancing around romantic feelings. Altered mental states. Pining. Poor communication and people skills. Assumed “unrequited love.” Fancy, glowing coasters. SPOILERS.

**HOPE, Part I**

_*Every little word upon your lips_

_Makes a little cut where blood pours out._

_Every little drop of blood a kiss_

_That I won't miss._

_Not for anything. . . ._

 

**_**~Inquisitor: Arcanist Dagna has forwarded what she learned about Samson's strange armor. Her glee over her discovery is disconcerting, but her information may prove invaluable. We should speak at your earliest convenience, Inquisitor. Cullen~_ **

 

#

 

“The red lyrium deposits are being destroyed, and we’ve cut the Red Templars down to the core, Inquisitor. Hopefully, we’ll soon be able to strip their general of his greatest defense as well,” Cullen said brusquely—and without looking up from six inches thick of requisitioning forms and reports from Knight-Captain Rylen . . . who was, as always, the _least_ of Cullen’s requisitioning or make-work woes—to a familiar, heart-flustering presence. Said presence had been lingering in the open doorway of his office since quarter after noon precisely, for their scheduled briefing.

 

The response to Cullen’s statement was a silence so long and profound, that Cullen acknowledged to himself that he was avoiding the man’s gaze—and even the sight of him. But for briefings and time in the War Room, Cullen and Adaar had barely seen or spoken to each other since the beginning of autumn. And certainly not alone. Not since returning from the Shrine of Dumat.

 

Not since Samson had slipped through Cullen’s useless hands, _yet again._

 

Although, with Maddox crafting and upkeeping his armor, neither Cullen nor anyone else would have been in any shape to take on the general of the Red Templars, had they managed to run him down. Now, however, as Winter Solstice and Dead-of-the-Year approached, the tables were possibly about to turn, assuming Arcanist Dagna hadn’t gotten carried away by discovery and theory. _Now_ . . . they had a shot at ending an evil that should never have flourished.

 

One of so very many.

 

And that was the _only_ reason Cullen had requested the Inquisitor’s presence in a—briefly—one-on-one setting. He only needed a few minutes to bring the Inquisitor up to speed, before Arcanist Dagna arrived with her mystical lore, magical theory, and large, alchemical-sounding phrases.

 

Though Adaar had already been standing in the doorway for at least several minutes when Cullen finally looked up from his endless paperwork—and despite Cullen carefully steeling himself—the sight of the Inquisitor hit him like a physical blow.

 

Foolishly, he hadn’t expected seeing Adaar to affect him so keenly and powerfully. As ever, when working, but not on a mission or quest, the Inquisitor was wearing his “Herald-wear” of white tunic—stretched enticingly across his broad shoulders and upper chest—which tapered down to his leanly-muscled thighs, clad in matching white breeches. Said breeches, though not as form-fitting as Dorian Pavus’ or even any well-heeled Orlesian merchant’s, were flattering, nonetheless, and spotless. The Inquisitor’s light-gray boots were plain, but clean.

 

His own gaze drawn by the Inquisitor’s intent stare, Cullen let his eyes scan up that long, sturdy body, but without letting his scan be caught by that bright, hazel-honey regard. He instead let it rest on Adaar’s—unusually—unbound hair, like a river of beaten copper-brightness tucked behind his pointed, slightly stick-up ears and left hanging halfway down his back in a pin-straight fall. The curling, copper-plated horns were a darker counterpoint to the hair, seeming more of a burnished bronze in the iffy shadows near Cullen’s office door.

 

With rue for himself and his own willful lack of fortitude, Cullen met Adaar’s wide, round eyes and, as entirely expected, found it difficult to breathe, let alone speak on any matter . . . even matters of Inquisition business.

 

“Yes, Commander. _Hopefully_ , Samson’s already numbered days draw to their close.” Adaar’s voice was calm and impersonal, as professional as Cullen had once upon a time despaired of it never being.

 

He supposed it was only fitting that he paid the price yet again for not being careful what he wished for. “As you’ve said, if anyone can out-craft and out-create a genius—can undo that genius’ corrupted masterwork . . . Samson’s clearly assuming that Maddox has no equal when it comes to magical theory and lyrium-forging. We _will_ surprise him. And _most_ unpleasantly.”

 

“Quite,” Adaar agreed in that same even tone, holding Cullen’s gaze unreadably. “But it’s . . . a pity Maddox and the other Tranquil mages under Samson’s dubious aegis thought their sacrifice was the only answer. That Samson _allowed_ that thinking to guide their actions,” he finally added, his tone slightly softened with regret. Then he broke their gazes just before Cullen would’ve started gasping from lack of air.

 

Released, Cullen stood suddenly, panting a little, and feeling both more fortified and less. Steadier and less.

 

And entirely more lost than ever.

 

“Nonetheless, that leaves Samson with a severely curtailed army and enchanted armor he can no longer maintain. You _did it_ , Inquisitor,” Cullen congratulated, managing a small and probably unconvincing smile. Adaar’s brow furrowed as he focused intently on a framed tactical map of Ferelden on Cullen’s wall.

 

“We all fought to make this happen, Commander. Don’t sell yourself short,” he murmured. Automatically, it seemed . . . not with his usual deep certainty and ferocious determination to make Cullen see what he saw.

 

Not for the first time, Cullen forced himself to admit that he’d never given Adaar any reasons or hope that _whatever he saw_ in Cullen was real or worth cultivating. And even assuming whatever Adaar saw _was_ worth that time and effort, such cultivation _was not_ among the Herald of Andraste’s and the Inquisitor’s many duties.

 

“I . . . yes, thank you, Inquisitor. I did my best. Whatever I could. But my work isn’t done, yet,” Cullen replied with weight and gravity that were only half-resulting from the surface-level of their interaction. But this time, at least, he managed a more genuine smile when Adaar made eye-contact again. “We’re getting more recruits by the hour. There’re more than a few ex-Templars among the current wave.”

 

“We’ve struck a blow. Given people _hope_. That’s . . . a true victory, indeed,” Adaar said warmly, returning the smile, but almost wearily. “Hope is a wonderful thing . . . and terrible.”

 

Despite the kind words that book-ended the smile, Cullen felt grim, nebulous dread pool in his mostly-empty stomach. It only deepened when Adaar’s flickering and emotive gaze drifted to the window to Cullen’s right. Something between them was wrong and had been growing steadily more so since the Shrine of Dumat. Since Maddox. Cullen’s own avoidance of Adaar had no doubt made the wrong worse and more glaring.

 

“Terrible?” he asked, since he didn’t dare ask Adaar anything else . . . not anything he _truly_ wished to know. Adaar’s smile faltered just the tiniest bit.

 

“Yes. Hope is either elixir or toxin, isn’t it? Depending, of course, on how it’s focused and applied, and where one spends it. Sometimes, it’s both, all at once. Life-giving sustenance . . . and spirit-breaking injury. Though I suppose it is, above all else, useful to a figurehead with an agenda—such as myself.” A brief, but melancholy furrow appeared between Adaar’s brows, then disappeared. Was seemingly chased away by a very practiced and public version of that crooked smile Cullen so adored, which made the pooling unease in his stomach double-down. “Whatever furthers the cause, and all that!”

 

Adaar sketched a fancy, Orlesian half-bow in Cullen’s direction. It looked rather strange coming from a Vashoth Qunari, let alone a maskless, non-Orlesian one . . . and yet, Cullen had long-since suspected that of the many things Kaaras Adaar was—including genuine, caring, loyal, selfless, and marrow-deep _good_ , maskless was none of them.

 

So many of Adaar’s gestures, facial expressions—especially of late—were like that Free Marches-drawl of his. A subtle subterfuge woven of half-truths and others’ expectations, which obscured a larger, but hidden truth. The subterfuges, themselves, were not a _lie_. Cullen had no doubt that Adaar had spent significant time in the Southern Marches to emulate the accent so naturally and well. But that time and that emulation were only _part_ of the truth. Part of the _story_ . . . like so much about him. There were other, deeper, closer-to-core truths about Kaaras Adaar that _none_ of his advisors, peers, or even Dorian Pavus or The Iron Bull knew about him.

 

Cullen often wondered who the man standing in his office _really was_. For none of them, not a single member of the Inquisition, had _ever_ seen _Kaaras Adaar_.

 

Add to that suspicion, Cullen’s certainty that something significant had gone wrong about their friendship—and was continuing to go wrong as they spoke—and his anxiety was keen, indeed. The teeth of that feeling had buried themselves mortally in both his stomach and his heart, and would not let go.

 

“I . . . forgive my bluntness and the overstepping nature of this observation, Inquisitor, but . . . I feel as if we’re suddenly speaking at cross-purposes,” he ventured slowly and Adaar’s smile widened again. But there was precious little of sincere mirth in it.

 

“Not _so_ suddenly, Commander.” Shrugging, Adaar turned half-toward the door to Cullen’s office. Every atom of his body and nuance to its language was defensive. Walled-off and distant. “Ah, at any rate, you asked me here because Dagna had something to report to us?”

 

“Yes. Erm, she should be here shortly. I asked you to stop by a little in advance of her, to get you up to speed on our efforts regarding Samson and putting a stop to any red lyrium production. But I also, er . . . that is, I thought you might . . . it’s been a while since we’ve spoken, Inquisitor,” Cullen finally settled on saying, feeling awkward and idiotic. Guilty and frustrated. But most of all, worried.

 

Like everyone, even open-hearted Kaaras Adaar had walls.  Of course, he did. But he’d never had them so thick or tall with respect to Cullen.

 

“Yes, it _has_ been a while. I had presumed that some . . . personal and professional distance between us was your preference, Commander. I’ve done my best to respect that.” Adaar’s voice was calm and relaxed again, but his shoulders were tense, his head bowed. All Cullen could see was the rising and falling copper of horns and hair, respectively. And though he was partial to the sight—partial to _all things_ Adaar—he was now dissatisfied, as well as worried.

 

“ _Distance_ is never— _has never_ been my preference where you’re concerned, Inquisitor,” Cullen claimed, though it sounded forced even to him . . . bore all the earmarks of a hard-fought battle. And judging by the tense, still-defensive hunch of Adaar’s normally straight and square shoulders, Cullen wasn’t alone in noting that. “Not at all my _preference_ , Inq— _Kaaras_ ,” he hastened to add, though low and vaguely ashamed-sounding. “But perhaps it’s . . . what’s best for all concerned, nonetheless.”

 

For over a minute, Adaar didn’t move, not even to square those shoulders. Not even to breathe, it seemed. Until he took a slow, deep inhale and let it out as a tired, ironic laugh, turning slightly toward Cullen, again. But only enough for Cullen to see that proud profile . . . not read it.

 

“You always do that lately, you know?”

 

Cullen sighed and hung his head, knowing he’d regret asking, but unable to help doing so. “And what’s that? What is it I _always do_ , lately?”

 

Once more, there was no reply for longer than a minute. Then Adaar sighed, too, and shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was strange: shaking, but stiff. Casual, but foggy.

 

“You only call me by my name anymore when you’re about to perform a bloody _coup de grâce_ on my hopes.”

 

As ever, Adaar’s voice was modulated for the space—neither too loud nor too soft. Only . . . it _was_ too loud. Else, why the pain that lanced through Cullen’s head, like startlement at some dinning alarm?

 

And it _was_ too soft. Else, why could he only barely hear what Adaar said after? And certainly not over the pounding of his own panicked heart?

 

“. . . you use it so infrequently, otherwise,” Adaar was drawling, all strident humor and false cheer, “one truly wonders whether all the agonizing I did over choosing a _good one_ was worth the time and trouble.”

 

 “What was that?” Cullen asked, leaning forward on his desk, his aching-twinging hands all shards of ice and stoked embers. He felt as if he wasn’t getting enough air again, despite the windows, the open space, and his deep, automatically measured breaths. As he started to recite under his breath the parts of the Chant of Light he found most soothing and restful, Adaar turned to look at him, frowning and startled. Cullen had to close his eyes for a moment. The room felt as if it was spinning, even though everything but himself was utterly still. Every single joint and bone in his body seemed to be frozen-stiff . . . and burning at core. But his hands were still the worst by far. “I—forgive me, Inquisitor, what were you say—”

 

“I finished it!”

 

At the rushed, upbeat voice, Cullen jumped, and his eyes flew open. Arcanist Dagna bounced into his office, her big, bright eyes fairly glowing, and hurried toward the desk. She placed herself halfway between Cullen and Adaar, her gaze darting back and forth to both, curious and elated. She was half Cullen’s height and barely one-third of Adaar’s.

 

Cullen wondered briefly if she ever got neck-strain, working among so many non-dwarves.

 

“I finished it, Inquisitor—and Commander Cullen! I—oh! Um. Are you talking? You’re talking, aren’t you? Sorry. Uh. But, here! Have it, anyhow!” Dagna managed to say all in one excited, breathless breath. Then she pulled a large—in her hands—circular, stone tablet from precisely nowhere Cullen could figure out. As she shoved it at Adaar, Cullen could make out a faint, reddish-pink glow emanating from the buff-colored stone.

 

“Erm . . . you want me to have a coaster with a lithographed rune on it?” Adaar asked wryly, ginger brows shooting up as he took the circular stone. He hefted it, made a surprised face, then looked down at Dagna again, bending his warmest, crookedest smile on her. “Well, now! I suppose this means I’ll have to make a fancy, glowing coaster for _you, as well_!”

 

Dagna beamed up at him and giggled. Cullen, his own worries and panic shelved for the moment, mused that he’d _never_ seen the Arcanist in a mood other than engaged, and joyfully inquisitive.

 

In moments like these, he found her optimism and enthusiasm extremely wearing and personally depressing.

 

“It’s not just _any_ fancy, glowing coaster, Inquisitor! I made it from red lyrium! And what was left of poor Maddox’s tools,” she added and Adaar clearly made an effort not to hurl the stone from himself. His face was set in almost superstitious unease as he glanced at Cullen, who shrugged. “The rune acts on the median fissures of lyrium to—” Dagna’s eyes darted from Adaar’s blank face, to Cullen’s slightly blanker one, and she sighed. “The fancy coaster’ll destroy Samson’s armor, so he’ll be much less indestructible when you fight him.”

 

“Ah. And Corypheus will at last be out one general . . . _such_ a pity,” Adaar said, soft and cruel and cold. His smile, as he stared at the rune in his hands, was much the same.

 

Cullen didn’t have it in him to pity such as Corypheus . . . but he certainly didn’t, in that moment, envy him the dreadful, inescapable doom bent upon him by Kaaras Adaar’s determination to see him ended.

 

Nor did he envy Samson—whom he _did_ , on some deep, discomfited level, pity—his place as a buffer between Corypheus’ insane ambitions of godhood and Adaar’s focused, unbreakable will to prevent it.

 

“Maddox covered Samson’s tracks thoroughly. But wherever the bastard’s retreated, we’ll find him, Inquisitor,” Cullen reassured his superior. Adaar’s eyes shifted from the glowing stone, and its etched and enchanted rune, to Cullen’s face, as unreadable as any colored glass. But Cullen held that gaze and suddenly understood that, as wearing as all of this had been on himself—especially since Sahrnia and the aftermath of the Shrine—it’d been _worse_ for Adaar. Maintaining the hope and faith and inspiration—the tenacity the world expected of Andraste’s Herald and the leader of the re-formed Inquisition—was breaking him down. Grinding him to dust because eventually it just _would_. As it did with everyone, living, and living well and righteously, would eventually _wear Adaar down_ to shadows and memories. Would _eventually_ dry up his hope, faith, inspiration, tenacity, and perhaps even that seemingly endless desire to do and be good.

 

Such was the way of things that _nothing_ gold stayed. Not even Cities in Heaven, built by Gods.

 

Even knowing that, Adaar had been taking and would take the _de rigeur_ failures that came with the Inquisitor’s life as a complete _moral and personal_ failing on his part. _Cullen’s_ failures, on the other hand, had always felt rather professional. They’d mostly affected his career and attendant circumstances—even if only because Cullen had never had much of a personal life. In these latter days, even the quest to bring down Samson felt impersonal—more duty to be discharged than anything—even when Cullen factored in his rage over Samson’s treatment of vulnerable persons under his dubious protection.

 

Though Cullen’s own culpability in Samson’s atrocities was a horrible burden for him to live with, and lives were on the line and lost every day that he failed to see Samson brought to account for his crimes . . . for the Inquisitor, charged with protecting the entire world and then some, it _had_ to be worse, didn’t it?

 

After all, Adaar’s burdens weren’t just a relative handful of broken-down ex-Templars needing new purpose. Or corrupted and betrayed Red Templars, and the serpent-tongued monster who lead them into battle. Adaar’s burden was the _world,_ and the Magister-demon who sought godhood at the cost of it.

 

As the Inquisitor and the _Herald of Andraste_ . . . none of Adaar’s failures could be or were at an even marginally comforting or sparing remove, any longer. Might never be again. As he fared, so fared the world and all upon it. _Nothing_ about Adaar’s life was personal because now, _everything_ was personal.

 

For Adaar, ending Samson wasn’t about ending, at all. It was merely another step on the winding road to keeping more death and horror from happening than already had. And just _perhaps—_ somewhere beyond all that and in his last, embattled moments of life—Adaar hoped he might manage to take Corypheus down with him.

 

As if gifted with both thought-reading and foresight, Cullen knew that Adaar’s endgame-plan was to destroy as much of Corypheus and his horrors as he could, even as he, himself, was destroyed: either by the bloody Anchor on his left palm, or the Magister, himself.

 

That Anchor at which Adaar was now staring, as he so often did these days, was quiescent for the nonce. In Adaar’s slightly lowered right palm, seemingly forgotten, lay Arcanist Dagna’s rune-stone, glowing with a baleful-soft, roseate hue.

 

Just one more step. _Literally_ , every quest or mission between Adaar and the final battle with Corypheus was just one more step. One of so many.

 

“Your army stands ready for you, Inquisitor. For Samson, for Corypheus. . . .” Cullen promised, firm, but breathless around the breaking heart now lodged in his throat. Nonetheless he held Adaar’s determined, hopeful and hopeless gaze, even though it burned and ached far worse than his hands ever had, and in ways and places that weren’t nearly as tangible. It consumed Cullen from the inside out with the first flames of a purpose that wasn’t new . . . merely shifted onto a different axis and dug-down impossibly deeper: Cullen’s overarching purpose and agenda now was Kaaras Adaar, and whatever it took to keep him from going down when Corypheus finally did. “For _whatever_ you command, Kaaras. Whatever.”

 

Adaar nodded once and even managed an anemic curve of a smile. And Cullen winced as he heard the creak of the Inquisitor’s fingers. He was clutching the rune-stone tight enough to make his finger-joints complain.

 

Ever empathetic to his Inquisitor’s state, _Cullen’s_ hands and fingers ached, and burned and froze in reciprocation.

 

He made a mental note to re-prioritize the finding of Samson from _top priority_ to _vital_. Between the right and left fists of the Inquisition working together to find the devil, and the Inquisitor’s determination to see him _brought down_ —not to mention Cullen’s determination—Raleigh Samson was living on borrowed time, indeed. And through him, Corypheus.

 

If they were careful and quick, both monster and demon could be permanently neutralized. _Without_ Adaar’s chilling certainties about his own near-future coming to pass.

 

Or so Cullen wished, but did not dare to hope.

 

#

 

In the dry, lingering chill of an early Wintermarch morning in the Frostback Mountains—almost a fortnight after a surprisingly snowless Winter Solstice, and unseasonably clement Dead-of-the-Year and First Day—Inquisitor Adaar and The Iron Bull were sparring once more. In that same bit of courtyard, with its rotating roster of curious nugs. This time, however, Adaar was paying not the slightest attention to their audience or anything else. He was far too engrossed in trying to break himself against Bull, like a wave against the shore.

 

Bright, overcast daylight made Cullen’s lack-of-lyrium headache seem to dig its claws into his skull and the backs of his eyeballs even more keenly. Made the ever-present—to some degree or other—ache and chill in his hands and joints burrow marrow-deep. But still, Cullen bore it—would have born anything simply to see the Inquisitor without, in turn, being seen . . . without feeling as if he was failing the other man in some unfathomable and cruel way.

 

 _That_ was going about as well as could be expected, which was to say _not at all_.

 

In silence that was unusual and unbroken, save for grunts of exertion, truncated growls, and the occasional roar of fury, the Inquisitor was clearly not sparring as a bid for practice or mastery. Nor even for conditioning. He was _enraged_ and _fighting_ like he was.

 

Adaar’s breeches this day were also of old, worn leather . . . brown, scuffed, and patched as usual. They weren’t merely riding low on his hips, but on his _arse_ , as well, skirting the very edges of public indecency. He was sweaty and dirty and shirtless . . . and scraped-up, to boot. The curling, copper-plated horns—which rose above a raging, fearsome expression, and ginger-gold hair that was coiled and tied in a messy, but no-nonsense bun—seemed to lazily throw solemn, overcast light back up at the sky.

 

The speed and agility advertised by fluid muscle, and a fighting-style that normally spoke more of a rogue than of a reaver, were not especially present in this match-up. Today, Adaar was brute-force and predictably unpredictable offensive.

 

The style was neither effective for nor suited to his dense-solid frame, but lean build and musculature. The Iron Bull had yet to break a sweat and had deflected Adaar with little in the way of real exertion since the sparring had begun. He’d side-stepped Adaar’s uncoordinated attacks, rather than swung-on or even defended against them. But all with the usual mantle of semi-paternal patience he wore when he sparred with the Inquisitor. Indeed, he didn’t try once to correct the younger man’s form—lack thereof—or anything about his attacks, near-clumsy as they were. He simply let Adaar go about fighting whatever or whomever he was really fighting against, and continue breaking himself in the safest way and arena available.

 

Adaar did _not_ look like a conquering hero, _today_.

 

“For some time, Commander, I thought you merely a blind and naïve fool. Inexperienced and innocent, just like Kaaras.” This time, Dorian Pavus’ presence on Cullen’s favorite pining-parapet caught him by surprise. Startled Cullen badly enough that he jumped and whirled around. Dorian was standing less than two yards away, surveying Cullen with icy disdain. “I see, now, that is _not_ the case.”

 

Today’s outfit was decidedly Orlesian: fine, lightweight _mousseline_ shirt and trousers—unadorned, but for a few pleats, gathers, and flounces on the shirt—in some shade of off-white, in deference to the unusual warmth of the day.

 

What Dorian supposed he knew, Cullen couldn’t imagine. But it made him uncomfortable, nonetheless. As well it should have, he supposed. A Dorian Pavus who thought he had the upper hand in an exchange was irritating and smug. And possibly some sort of threat, assuming what he knew was useful, and true enough to spin into whispers that would haunt one.

 

He and First Enchanter Vivienne were old hands at such rarefied sport. And fast—if vicious—confidants, because of their shared hobby.

 

“This . . . isn’t a good time, Dorian. I doubt you’ll find me diverting company, at the moment,” Cullen said, with polite, but steely warning. The other man merely scoffed and batted his eyelashes, flinging his right hand to the vicinity of his heart.

 

“Calumny! Slander! Balderdash! I _always_ find your company to be diverting, Commander! Such a refreshingly _plainspoken_ man you are!” Dorian declared, his sarcastic, disingenuous laughter not really covering words that fairly dripped reproof and scorn. That, too, grated on Cullen. Made his headache go from throb to pound, and his aches and chills seep to every extremity. He fought not to clench his hands into futile fists, to spare them further agony—and to not give himself away to the far-too-observant mage—and turned back to watching Adaar throw himself and his rage against the unshiftable and unbreakable Iron Bull.

 

Thankfully, Dorian didn’t join Cullen in enjoying the view, this time. He didn’t go away, either, but at least distance and silence afforded Cullen the luxury to pretend he had.

 

Well . . . so to speak. His more obvious and put-on quirks and . . . _charms_ —and his Imperium-fostered prejudices and class-based worldview—aside, Dorian Pavus was a talented mage and necromancer. Thus, he was _never_ to be even slightly underestimated or totally dismissed. Not because of his vivid personality and odd-scandalous fashion-sense. Not because of his flamboyant affect and seemingly _laissez-faire_ attitude toward everything.

 

And not _by a former Templar_ , whose calling and purpose had been to observe and assess _every_ mage he came across.

 

Cullen had, since meeting Adaar, learned to trust that a mage could, like anyone else possessed of an uncommon power, learn to temper and master himself. And Cullen had also learned to trust _a_ mage, period. At least if that mage was _Adaar_. All other mages were open to lesser degrees of benefit-of-the-doubt. And no matter what, the part of Cullen that would never stop being a Templar, would also _never_ stop its scrutiny and evaluation of magi. Even Adaar . . . though, where Cullen watched all other magi for the sake and safety of non-magi, he watched Adaar for the sake and safety of _Adaar_. Mostly to keep him secure from his own inability to not overextend himself or his power in pursuit of the Inquisition’s aims.

 

Dorian Pavus, however . . . Cullen trusted the man with most Inquisition business. But not much beyond the professional, besides the occasional chess match-up. Though, when it came to protecting Adaar . . . Dorian Pavus was the only other person Cullen was certain he could trust with Adaar’s life and security, from a defense-point. Like Cullen, Dorian Pavus would give his all, even his own life, to protect and save Adaar.

 

Cullen had long been noticing—practically since right after Redcliffe, and Dorian’s arrival at Haven—the way Dorian looked at Adaar. From that first day, when Dorian had barged into the old War Room, even if Adaar hadn’t noticed (and he probably hadn’t) _Cullen had_.

 

His Templar training in observation and assessment was invaluable for allowing him to recognize the intensity and direction of his deepest obsession, also run raging and barely-checked in others. Cullen had no doubt that, were circumstances somewhat different—were he in competition and in the running for winning Adaar’s eye and affection . . . his _heart_ —Dorian would prove dire competition, indeed. 

 

For not so far below that colorful, flashy, and frequently tiresome affect was an objectively remarkable person. One who’d overcome many of the execrable mores that had made the Tevinter Imperium its own worst enemy . . . but who was _yet_ striving to overcome even _more, still_.

 

That growth of character was, when Cullen thought back to the earliest days of Dorian’s time with the Inquisition, even more evident. To the point that, though they’d never be friends, even _Mother Giselle_ had become more tolerant and accepting of ‘the Tevinter.’

 

In many ways, Dorian was and continued to be a self-made man—and an _admirable one_ , when one got down to it—just like the Inquisitor.

 

If Adaar wanted—if he showed even a hint of more-than-friendly inclination—Dorian would certainly turn his amorous attention away from The Iron Bull, and to where it’d wanted to be from the beginning.

 

To _Kaaras_. . . .

 

Cullen had never _really_ supposed he would ever have had a chance at Adaar for myriad and obvious reasons. Even with the recent admission to himself that, _yes_ , Kaaras Adaar just might return his feelings with tempting gusto—and maybe had for quite some time—Cullen had no hopes that such feelings could ever lead them anywhere. After all, Adaar was _the Inquisitor_ . . . the chosen of Andraste, an accomplished mage and warrior, and the most kind, noble, generous, pure-hearted, clever, beautiful, _breathtaking_ person Cullen had ever known. And it had been made clear that he could have his pick of _anyone_ he set his sights upon.

 

Which made the obvious question: Why would he set them seriously on _Cullen Rutherford_ , of all people? A broken-down ex-Templar battling lyrium addiction and withdrawal, with more or less success and optimism depending on the day, and on the intensity of the physical pain in which said withdrawal left him?

 

(And it had been markedly _less_ optimism and _more_ pain, since the Shrine and Maddox.)

 

Perhaps Adaar had become confused—had mistaken his own kindness and ability to see the potential and best in everyone with attraction, and even infatuation. But how long could such a delusion last, realistically? Even with Cullen acting on it and perpetuating that myth? Or at least _without_ making it plain to Adaar that the man he saw in Cullen and the man who actually was were two _vastly different_ men?

 

Besides which, it seemed eventual that, with the iron-clad friendship between Adaar and Dorian-bloody-Pavus—a skilled and terrifyingly competent direct peer—the latter’s _poorly-hidden_ romantic feelings would be reciprocated, sooner or later. After all, Dorian was accomplished, charming, traveled, well-rounded, and so _good-looking_ that Cullen felt it like a blow, sometimes. Not the same knocked-down-and-pleasantly-dazed blow to the head and heart that he got whenever he saw _the Inquisitor_. No, this was a different, staggering sort of been-felled-by-how-little-I-compare-to- _that_ blow to the gut, made entirely of fierce talent, intimidating intelligence, articulate grace, and handsome doom.

 

Where Kaaras Adaar made Cullen’s _knees_ weak (but his heart strong), Dorian Pavus—and what he might come to mean to Adaar—made Cullen’s _near-everything_ weak, and his self-doubt and self-disgust _strong_. Made him shrivel and shrink into himself with futility, frustration, and despair.

 

Because Cullen knew that there _truly_ was no way he could measure up to any of Dorian Pavus’ sterling qualities and accomplishments. And every time he saw the other man lately, he couldn’t help but realize anew how far he was from any chance with Adaar, never mind all the idiotic hopes and wishes that proliferated in his heart. The distance was that of entire worlds, really. Cullen wasn’t in the running even _without_ such an impressive and impossible rival for the Inquisitor’s affections. Without a rival for that crooked-beaming smile that’d disappeared weeks ago, and had yet to return—

 

For that gaze and regard that settled _soul-deep_ and _lifted up_ , as if by wings made of the unshakeable faith of a saint. Or the unimpeachable benevolence of a god. . . .

 

“Ugh! At first, it was rather amusing, watching two simpletons pine after each other obliviously.” Dorian sighed from a bit closer behind Cullen, and with overdone disappointment. Cullen returned to the present and himself with another startled jolt, and turned to face Dorian once more, bristling and scowling. The other man watched him with sardonic amusement. But his put-on good humor didn’t quite mask the genuine frustration and sternness in his voice. “Now, it’s become tedious and discommoding. _You_ have become tedious, Commander. _And_ discommoding. Because _you_ , at least, aren’t _at all oblivious_ , are you?”

 

His entire body flushing and blanching, Cullen drew in and let out a breath slowly. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded faint and whistling even to his own ears. “Actually, I am. I don’t know what you’re talking about, _serah_. I doubt _you_ do, either.”

 

“Don’t be gauche. I _always_ know what I’m talking about.” Now, the amusement and fake-mirth that had rounded Dorian’s educated, Imperial accent were gone, leaving it well-modulated, as usual, but crisp and cold. Disapproving. “For instance, I _know_ that _you know_ that Kaaras is so in love with you, his feet haven’t even touched the ground since shortly after Haven. I know that if you were _half_ the man you pretend to be to your soldiers, you’d have told Kaaras how _you_ feel months ago. And I _very much know_ that if you refuse to grow a pair, as you Fereldans say, and stop torturing the both of you, you don’t bloody deserve him. Or any of the _other_ hundreds of chances at disgusting happiness that _surely_ lay themselves at your feet daily.”

 

Cullen’s face twisted then froze in a grimacing snarl. “As if _you_ can see well enough beyond your own covetousness and thwarted infatuation to claim knowledge of any kind! _Especially_ where the Inquisitor is concerned!” Giving Dorian a sneering, stony once-over, Cullen shook his head and stalked slowly, aggressively toward the other man, who did not move a tic. “Your motivations and desperation are as transparent—and as obvious—as your outfits.”

 

Dorian was, briefly, stunned beyond even an offended gasp. It wasn’t until Cullen had shouldered past him, smug and grim and _so very furious_ —and not at his detractor . . . at least not as much as at himself—that the mage dredged up a hissing, icy-angry response.

 

“ _You_ are a _selfish, spineless bloody coward_ , Cullen Rutherford. And yet, Kaaras still chose _you_.” Dorian huffed after Cullen with offended incredulity. The unsounded _over me_ lingered in the air between him and Cullen—who’d paused and once more spun around—like a bitter fume. Dorian’s normally pleasant face was pale, glowering, and _honest_ in a way Cullen had thus far only seen when the ever-poised mage was spellcasting. And only during the more desperate battles they’d fought in. He was tense and enraged and . . . _jealous_. Of . . . _Cullen_. “The only reason he hasn’t blurted out how he feels about you is to spare _you_ discomfort or unhappiness because of _his_ inconvenient, unrequited feelings. He’s letting you break _his_ heart to spare your own. And you’re _letting him_ let you.

 

“So, no, Commander. You really _don’t_ deserve him. And _he_ deserves better than _you’ve_ proven to be, thus far. Which is why I want you to know this,” Dorian gritted with insincere pleasantness as he prowled toward Cullen, threat and promise—and arcane energy—swirling around him like brisk zephyrs. Such was Cullen’s shock, that even his Templar training couldn’t break through it to supply him with advice on how to deal with the possibility of a magical attack. He couldn’t fathom where Dorian’s jealousy or rage came from, since he had no _rational_ reason to envy Cullen, all things considered. And thus, no rational reason to be angry over what was his _clear and unchallenged advantage._ But the look on Dorian’s beautiful-livid face wasn’t what Cullen would term ‘rational.’ “If you don’t start being the man Kaaras thinks you are, _Commander Cullen_ , then I’m going to do _everything_ in my power to divert all that love and faith and admiration you haven’t earned— _and are throwing away_ —to more . . . appreciative recipients.”

 

Before Cullen’s jaw finished dropping and his skin finished blanching, Dorian strode past him with a tangible, turbulent aura of tension and ire. Cullen still felt it even at several yards of lengthening distance. Said aura raised every hair on his body and left it right on end until the mage was well gone, with only the booming slam of the heavy parapet-door as evidence of his tenure.

 

#

 

“You’re pacing like an enraged bear, Cullen.” Beat. “And was it really necessary to kick that stool into the forge? This Inquisition is not _made of stools_ , you know?”

 

“I’ll have the cost of a replacement taken out of my wages, if that makes at least _one_ of us feel better.” Cullen barked a brief, rattled laugh as he turned to face the Seeker. Cassandra Pentaghast’s intense gaze flicked between the small, unfortunate stool melting in the heated forge and Cullen’s frantic-anxious face. Her expression was, as usual, both impassive and fierce. Cullen admired her and also wanted to throw whatever came to hand at her head. Sadly, since they were in one of Skyhold’s forges, he doubted that would end well for either of them. “ _Why_ must you make _everything_ a Holy-bloody-Crusade, Cassandra? Why can’t you just do as I ask?”

 

“You _asked_ for my opinion and I have given it,” she replied in her unruffled, Nevarran accent. Thrown into relief by the light of the small, utilitarian forge, she looked as icy and immutable as a blade. Of course. In this place of swords, stools, and molten steel, she was probably more comfortable than in her own quarters or office. Cullen—who was always chilled marrow-deep these days—had started to swelter in his layers of armor and uniform. “Why would you expect me to change that opinion for no reason?”

 

“I _expect you_ to keep your word!” Cullen snapped, turning away once more and throwing his hands up in annoyance. Then, in capitulation as he forced himself to confess: “It’s _relentless_! I can’t. . . .”

 

“You _can_ ,” Cassandra countered firmly, not an ounce of softness in voice or words, but worlds’ worth of faith, confidence, and belief. Expressed with fire, force, and purity, as was Cassandra’s way. All three were plain and unhidden, as evident as the Seeker’s muscles and scars and nobility. But that nobility, and her martial prowess and rough-hewn dedication to her ethos aside . . . Cassandra Pentaghast’s truest virtue was that faith: its unparalleled tenacity and unflinching integrity. It had carried her through travails that should have killed her, and she’d never lost it. It had, in fact, only grown. It now included the Inquisition, the Inquisitor, and her peers.

 

It included Cullen, for whom she evinced not merely respect, but affection . . . awkward and edgy as it was.

 

Cullen, in turn, had come to love her almost as much as he loved his older sister, in some moments. Cassandra and Mia were nothing alike whatsoever . . . but for their way of seeing Cullen as if he wasn’t disappointment incarnate.

 

So, he couldn’t trust her judgment in this matter, anymore. Precisely because such a large part of him _wanted_ to do just that. Her admiration and respect increasingly made him feel small and unworthy. As if despite her incisiveness and almost unassailable piety, she was as unshielded and vulnerable as any novice: All hope and fidelity in something that was doomed to fall far short of her expectations and its own potential.

 

“You give yourself too little credit,” Cassandra said, still firm, but quieter and sadder. Cullen snorted ruefully.

 

“I don’t give myself too little credit, Cassandra . . . _you_ give me too much,” he eventually replied, meeting her adamant, but concerned gaze for a moment, then looking away. He felt sweaty and achy, jittery and weighed-down. “If I’m unable to fulfill what vows I’ve kept, then _nothing good_ has come of this! Nor will it!”

 

“ _That_ is _not_ your judgment to make, Commander, but my own. And I have made it.” Cassandra recrossed her arms, her eyes all flash and fire, her voice all coolth and stone as she stood in the yellow-orange glare of forge-light. Cullen squinted and scowled at her, all but trembling and shaking with the return of his persistent chills and aches—despite the heat—and the near-constant thudding in his head. It’d been so long since he _hadn’t_ suffered from intense headaches and light-sensitivity, that he no longer paid it heed. He simply bore-up-under and soldiered on.

 

 _Usually_. But now, his skull felt as if it might crack. Either that, or all the seared, adust flesh on his icy-aching- _burning_ bones would slough off and leave those bones even more vulnerable to the elements. His hands were so cold, he could barely feel them to know they were still there, but for the occasional phantom-twinge.

 

“Listen to yourself, _Seeker_ ,” Cullen plead, hurling her title and the last of his honor at the wall of hope and faith in her eyes. Comprising her _being_. She effortlessly repelled that siege, with nary a blink as concession. He growled then forcibly unclenched his stiff, throbbing hands. “Would you rather _save face_ than just bloody _admit_ that—”

 

Cullen paused and looked over his shoulder—not because he’d even heard the creaking door open wide, but because Cassandra’s pale eyes flicked past him. He squinted a bit, in the bright, crisp near-Wintersend light that flooded the forge and swept in fresh, cold air around a tall, tapering figure.

 

Already turning to face and moving toward Inquisitor Adaar, Cullen managed to stop himself from throwing himself at Adaar’s feet and clinging—begging for absolution—through main-force, his face set and grim in an expressionless mask.

 

After a minute passed with no one moving, only staring—though staring at Adaar had _always_ hurt Cullen in _some_ way . . . it was just that now that the man was backlit by intense-overcast daylight, the hurt had become physical, as well as emotional—Adaar stepped hesitantly out of the entryway and into the dim-diffuse shadowland between natural light and firelight.

 

He looked like a hero out of some old, Nevarran legend, brave and noble and true. Young and full of hope. Beautiful and _kind_ and—

 

“Forgive me,” Cullen whispered as Adaar drew even with him and, though it nearly broke him, he broke their gazes. Adaar’s was intensely worried and confused—hurt, as it so often seemed to be whenever it landed on Cullen lately.

 

Feeling worse, still, Cullen hurried past Adaar, holding his breath so as not to inhale the gentle embriums-and-summer scent of him.

 

Once out in the light of day, Cullen drew in a deep, shuddering breath which he only let out well on his way to his office. Neither exhalation nor daylight brought comfort, or respite from the claustrophobic inner-darkness that continued to consume Cullen in gulps.


	5. HOPE, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen = ALL THE MISERY AND UNCERTAINTY, yeah-yeah, yadda-yadda. But _Adaar_ isn’t taking any more of Cullen’s high-strung whinging and angst. 
> 
> He's definitely taking a few other things, in their place, however.  
> ::meaningful eyebrow-waggle::  
> ::classy and demonstrative hand-gestures::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes/Warnings: Cullen Rutherford POV. LYRIUM ADDICTION/WITHDRAWAL. Mentions of past torture. Mentions of violence. Mentions of and recovery from life-threatening injuries. Survivor’s guilt, self-esteem issues. SPOILERS for Origins and Inquisition. Anxiety, rage, despair. Angst, FEELS, flirting, banter. Altered mental states. Pining. Assumed “unrequited love.” Love confessions (at-freaking-LAST!) and smut-like happenings. Hopeful and, dare I say, happy ending? For now, anyway. There’re still at least three more fics in this series :-D

**HOPE, Part II**

_*Every single feeling tells me this is leading to a heart_

_In broken little pieces, and you know I need this_

_Like a hole in the—_

Upon reaching the parapet-door that let into his office, Cullen slammed it open. After pausing for only a moment to let his eyes adjust to the relative dimness, he stormed over to the other door—the one that lead deeper into the great, stone warren that was Skyhold—and locked it with a savage gesture. The last thing he needed right now was make-work problems.

 

By the time his accelerated breathing turned into painful, angry gasping, he was standing at his desk. Then leaning over it on clenched, agonized fists, and staring down into his open lyrium-kit. Again. Not even for the first time this hour.

 

In his elevated despair and distress—his _hopelessness_ —time went . . . strange for a spell. Slowed-down and sped up, at the same time. And when it finally saw fit to release Cullen from his waking-fugue, he blinked, then squinted and hissed when a sharp pain lanced from just behind his eyes, straight to the back of his skull, only to radiate throughout his body.

 

 _It will be this like from now, onward_ , he suddenly understood and believed with every fiber of his wrecked being. _There is no redemption of my life—nor of me. No point of atonement or penance paid. No starting over. Pain and misery is all that is left, now that purpose has become mere duty, and duty has grown stale and empty. This is how it will be until the end_.

 

His heavy-weary-stinging eyes fell shut and the breath he drew in shook and caught. There was nothing to see on the backs of his eyelids, for once. No demons or horrors, whether past or present, memory-sent or Fade-sent. Just . . . darkness laid before him. A void that was infinitely bare and infinitely deep. Cullen knew he trembled on the cusp of a bottomless chasm and had been for some time. It was only a small matter of the same, before he finally fell forever.

 

There was no one and nothing to save him, at the very last. And he’d proven fantastically unable to save himself. So, it made less than no sense that he continued to toil so futilely to put that eventuality off. And falling _was_ eventual. As was _everything_ Cullen had _never_ wanted. It’d be better, _sooner_ , for the people he cared about if he finally just _let go_. . . .

 

Suddenly, like dawn breaking in the darkness of his own personal Abyss, Cullen saw the Inquisitor’s— _Kaaras’_ —face.

 

Not serene and hale as usual, but his face as he’d lain in his sickbed—nearly his deathbed—half a year ago. He’d looked so wan and weary and pale. So young and naked. So . . . _scared_.

 

And not of his own injury and illness, or of anything the rigors of being Inquisitor might next throw at him.

 

He’d been scared that he’d be left alone. That _Cullen_ would leave him alone. That Cullen might somehow grow disaffected or disappointed and abandon him. That Cullen would desert _the one ray of light and faith and hope_ to shine on his life—in his heart—in longer than he cared to quantify.

 

 _“There’re a lot of things I can bear, if needs must, I’ve discovered. But your enmity, your disgust . . . or just your disappointment is . . . a prospect that I can’t entertain even in the abstract. As is your . . . absence.”_ Sniffling and scrunching up his pale-young face—Cullen had known the other man was several years younger than him, at least, but had never found an appropriate moment to badger his _exact_ age from Leliana, or simply ask it of Adaar, himself—the Inquisitor had muttered and swore. Blinked until tears rolled quick and steady down his face. But other than the blinking, he’d held Cullen’s gaze with his usual quiet courage. _“Stay? Even if it’s just to take me to task . . . stay? I don’t care if you only stay with the Inquisition_ simply _to make sure_ I _don’t bollocks it to the hilt and destroy the world in the process. Just—please don’t go, Cullen. Please, stay? Don’t . . . don’t leave me alone.”_

 

Cullen had never seen the Inquisitor scared before that moment. Never expected to. And certainly not over. . . .

 

After _that_ moment, and with growing frequency and intensity in the months since, Cullen had _known_. Just as Dorian Pavus had known. Had eventually accused, first with cutting mockery and insinuations, then with cutting truth and candor . . . then with cutting glances of utter disgust.

 

Just as The Iron Bull had known, his veiled but piercing gazes weighing Cullen then finding him wanting, whenever the mercenary happened upon Cullen and the Inquisitor in each other’s company.

 

Just as _Cullen had known._ Known, and remonstrated with himself time after time after time, as the professional ease and rapport between himself and Adaar withered, and the personal distance between them grew and deepened. Adaar’s boundless faith in Cullen never wavered, but his hope—not the Inquisitor’s confidence regarding his Commander, but _Kaaras Adaar’s hope_ regarding _Cullen Rutherford_ —which had shone so brightly from him for so long, finally did. That precious, perfect beacon had wavered and _dimmed_ . . . was sputtering and now all but gone out, like a lonely, untended candleflame assaulted by the north wind.

 

That, too, was all Cullen’s fault. Was another lovely, pure, fragile goodness that he’d failed to sustain as he should have.

 

Not that he _could_ have . . . not in the way Adaar seemed to want. Never _that_. Adaar deserved . . . _Kaaras deserved_ . . . so many things. And all those things were a thousand-thousand Ages better than the only thing he’d ever expressed a desire to have for himself.

 

So help him, _Cullen knew_ that Kaaras loved him. _Wanted_ him, and maybe had since the beginning. And that love and wanting was certainly reciprocated . . . perhaps it had been from the first time Cullen had looked up— _and up and up_ —into Adaar’s luminous eyes and tired-small-crooked smile near Haven, after the Divine Conclave was sabotaged. . . .

 

Standing in the ice and snow, surrounded by danger and illuminated by the Breach above, Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the newly-re-formed Inquisition, had gone instantly dizzy upon first meeting that bright, warm gaze. Then almost as instantly that unsteadiness had passed, leaving him blinking up at Cassandra and Leliana’s “Prisoner,” a Tal-Vashoth apostate mage.

 

The apostate’s scratched, dirty face, with its vivid freckles and furrowed brow, had been close and concerned, and occasionally obscured by wind-whipped snow and icy grit. That face, and that _gaze_ hadn’t helped Cullen’s unsteadiness, nor had realizing both of this unknown quantity’s— _this Tal-Vashoth apostate mage’s_ —large hands had been clamped on his biceps, holding Cullen upright easily as he’d listed leftward, and his legs had relearned their business.

 

“Are you alright, Commander Cullen?” the apostate had asked, his voice cracking and hoarse from cold and exertion. From _exhaustion_ that had been as plain as its rival (determination), which had also radiated from him like heat. Cullen had shivered and reminded himself to breathe, even as he’d got himself mostly under control and the gangly, ginger giant had let go of him with seeming reluctance.

 

“Er, yes. I . . . grew a bit disoriented for a moment. Thank you for your assistance,” Cullen had mumbled, glad of his cold-ruddy complexion camouflaging a ridiculous blush. He’d forced his snared focus to the distance. To the sky, and the misty, green-gold doom hanging above all their heads. It had been only slightly more difficult to collect himself under its gaze, than under the apostate’s, so he’d allowed himself to meet the mage’s gaze once again. Something about those eyes—their keenness and . . . kindness, perhaps—had struck Cullen again even harder, like a hammer-stroke from the Maker, Himself. “At any rate, I hope they’re right about you. We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here, Apos—er, _serah_.”

 

The apostate’s hazel-gold-green eyes had flickered with regret and pain that’d made Cullen feel about three inches tall. But that crooked-tired smile hadn’t faltered too much. “Please, call me _Adaar_. And I can’t _promise_ anything. This is all . . . extremely sudden and overwhelming and _deeply insane_. But I’ll do my best. I _won’t_ let these deaths be in vain, Commander.”

 

“That’s all we can hope for,” had been Cullen’s stiff, rather uncharitable reply. But he, too, had been running on little more than wired exhaustion and fear of the Breach-phenomenon TARFUing more than it already had. And as he’d stalked away from Adaar—who’d still been “The Apostate,” to Cullen, or “The Prisoner,” in even less charitable moments—he’d hardened himself to the faltering of that hopeful, uncertain smile in its handsome, young, scraped-up face. But even as he had, he’d still been fighting to catch the figurative breath that’d been gut-punched out of him the moment he’d met those _eyes_. . . .

 

In a very real sense, Cullen had been trying and failing to catch that _same_ breath in the fourteen months since. And his breathlessness was no longer merely figurative, in less clamped-down moments.

 

For the first time in his life, Cullen Rutherford knew _real_ despair, and not because of a purpose he’d once had then been stripped of, through experience and misadventure. But because he at last knew what it was to have never _really_ had a chance at or come close to being worthy of the only thing he’d ever dared to want for himself.

 

Not for his family, his peers, his country, his world—not for an Order or for Andraste or for the Maker. Simply for himself.

 

Kaaras Adaar was both journey and destination, dedication and purpose—Cullen’s desired path and the clearing at which it ended—all in one leggy-tall, graceful-clumsy, endearingly awkward, _breathtakingly_ gorgeous, impossibly _true_ young man.

 

And for so many reasons, not least of which was the differing directions in which they _did not deserve each other_ , Cullen could _never_ encourage romantic affection from a man of Kaaras’ caliber. Could neither accept it nor even acknowledge it to Kaaras, lest . . . all subsequent attempts at propriety and honor fail as fully as every other good Cullen had attempted.

 

But surely, in time, Kaaras . . . Adaar . . . _the Inquisitor_ . . . would realize that there were better people out there on whom to pin his heart. He certainly was, as leader of the Inquisition, in a fine place to meet some of the preeminent ones. There had been no end of marriage proposals—arranged and not—since he’d taken on the role of Inquisitor. Proposals from noble and even royal families from across Southern Thedas were _still_ flooding in. Many of those hopefuls were truly impressive. Some both in reputation and in reality.

 

And aside from his own accomplishments, titles, and wealth—and his status as Andraste’s Herald—the Inquisitor was a strapping and strikingly handsome man. One whose easy smile, calm and affable manner, and demure-dry wit even charmed some of his relatively few detractors.

 

Adaar not only had his pick of paramours, but he _deserved_ it. And, if Cullen had his say and druthers, Adaar would not suffer the lack of a _worthy_ spouse or consort, due to interference from a silly, doomed infatuation with the useless remains of a lost ex-Templar.

 

Even if that meant a lifetime of loneliness and regret for said ex-Templar. After all, it wasn’t as if Cullen’s life had been slated to go any _other way_ than straight into the privy, for quite some time.

 

Sighing, Cullen opened his eyes and grabbed the lyrium-kit. He gripped it tight in his shaking-aching right hand and hurled it at the open parapet-doorway with a frustrated, enraged growl.

 

Rather, at the crisp-bright light that had been shining in. He’d meant only to be rid of the damned thing—this one, at least, though he could easily procure another if and when he succumbed—for good. To see it, if none of the others, smashed against Skyhold’s stones.

 

Instead, the lyrium-kit shattered high and near the hinged-edge of the parapet-door. Right at about nose-level on the Inquisitor, who’d jerked back with admirable reflexes and thus avoided a face full of wood, pewter, and glass.

 

“Maker’s _breath_!” Cullen exclaimed on the back of a horrified gasp, his heart instantly pounding. The Inquisitor’s wide eyes ticked from the scuff-mark a few inches to the right of his face, to the mess on the floor far below it . . . then to Cullen. “I didn’t hear you enter, I . . . forgive me, Inquisitor!”

 

“You, erm, already asked for that, Commander. You _should_ know by _now_ that that’s always a given. Besides, as long as you weren’t _aiming_ at me—”

 

“ _Never_.” Cullen swore with raw and ridiculously impassioned honesty. This loss of even basic tone-modulation was mortifying to him. At least it was until Adaar grinned briefly, cheekily, as if Cullen’s loss of control and decorum had somehow halved the aching, empty distance between them.

 

“Well done, then! I don’t doubt that box—or perhaps the door?—had it coming!”

 

“I _swear_ , Inquisitor, I didn’t mean to—” Cullen, blushing and blanching, moved toward the Inquisitor not by choice. Or with about as much choice as a flower turning toward the sun. But he’d only gone a few shuffling steps to his right when he grew dizzy and stumbled, nearly falling, but for Adaar’s speed and reflexes, and steady strength. But for those strong, determined hands on his biceps, holding him up yet again.

 

When the disorientation and wooziness eased, nearly a minute later, Cullen opened his eyes and looked up into Adaar’s. They were keen and bright, calm and kind.

 

Just as they’d been in the beginning, near Haven.

 

Just as they’d been ever since, and until just before Harvestmere. When the leaves had cast off their common greens to don shades of empyrean gold, rain-washed amber, and hearth-light marigold, and dance on the biting air.

 

(Cullen hadn’t been especially impressed by autumn’s finery. Not when he’d seen those same colors and others—brighter and better—dancing and glinting far more enchantingly in Adaar’s eyes _year-round_. . . .)

 

Since those fall days, Cullen hadn’t allowed himself that thrill. That comfort and pleasure. Hadn’t _dared_ to seek the comfort of Adaar’s gaze for fear that where he, himself, was concerned, Adaar’s perpetual reassurance and warmth had run their course.

 

Cullen was not-so-suddenly _done_ with himself. Bored and sick and _disgusted_. Wiped out. “I never meant for this to interfere, Kaaras. Not any of it,” he said in a voice gone rough and cracking with guilt and desolation. He forced himself to meet Adaar’s shuttered, narrowed gaze for long moments, then he shuddered and sighed when that buffer was put aside, revealing worry and affection, understanding and empathy. And all the warmth and faith that Cullen could _never_ , even if he lived for an Age of Ages, fully earn or be remotely worthy of.

 

“I didn’t, either, for what it’s worth. But what’s done is _done_ , Cullen. We can only move forward . . . wherever forward leads us.” A twitching near-smile curved Adaar’s mobile mouth and his eyes were just a little shinier than their usual luminosity could account for. He cleared his throat. “For now, however . . . are _you_ alright? Is there any way I can help?”

 

“No,” Cullen said automatically, then groaned, sagging a bit in Adaar’s firm hold. “Er, yes? I mean . . . Maker, I don’t know,” he finally settled on as an answer, attempting a smile of his own. It was yet another failure, even if a small one. But Adaar’s smile widened, like the sun emerging from behind clouds. Cullen’s heart tripled its already triple-time racing, and he looked down before he said or did anything else horribly unwise. “Cassandra’s right. I should stay . . . see my responsibilities through. I need to—to . . . I don’t know _what_ I need.”

 

Though that felt like the wrongest and most transparent lie he’d ever told. And the least justified, somehow.

 

“If time to _figure out_ what you need is . . . one of the things you need, Cullen, then you have it. As much of it as you need. But please know that I _am_ here for you. For however long is wanted and in whatever capacity you choose, _no matter_ what you choose. You mean _the world_ to me and always will, whether that sentiment is returned in the same fashion or not,” Adaar said, soft and low and honest. His eyes were not just brilliant but _brimming_ with all the feeling Cullen had thought he might never see again.

 

Relief and sheer joy brought tears to Cullen’s eyes that he hadn’t the pride or desire to hide, though they didn’t fall. A grimacing, lately unpracticed smile crossed Cullen's face, an instinctive result of that relief and joy. And Adaar . . . beamed. Glowed. Was _incandescent_.

 

And Cullen . . . didn’t just want. He _needed_. More than he ever had.

 

For the first time in his life, he did not stop himself from reaching out. From _accepting_ that which was freely—hopefully and humbly—offered.

 

Adaar’s surprise as Cullen’s stiff, pained hands clamped and clenched on his hips was nothing like displeased. Nor did it hint at such when Cullen turned and shifted them, pushing Adaar back against the desk.

 

Cullen held Adaar’s startled-steady gaze as the taller man sat on the edge of the desk and scooted back a bit: greatly lessening the height differential and proving that he really _was_ all legs, like a newborn colt. He spread his thighs in tacit invitation and expectation. Cullen was instantly _there_ , crowding against Adaar as close as he could get with the bit of desk preventing a flush press, and leaning heavily, aggressively into Adaar’s lean-solid- _warm_ frame.

 

Those long thighs bracketed Cullen’s tightly, and strong calves locked behind them, tugging and urging Cullen closer and _in_. It seemed like eternal instants until Cullen’s forehead was touching Adaar’s, and the younger man’s soft, light breaths puffed on his mouth.

 

For so long, neither of them spoke. They barely even moved. Cullen could only let his hands clench and unclench, now on Adaar’s waist. Then they finally shifted slowly—tentatively—around to his arse to do the same. Both men both groaned, then groaned again when Cullen’s grasp grew tighter, surer, and possessive, and his fingers bit deeper into firm, muscled flesh.

 

“Yes,” Adaar whispered shakily. He sounded anxious and wary. _Scared,_ again, but not—it was obvious—that Cullen would _press_ this unexpected advantage.

 

Rather, that Cullen would _not_.

 

“ _Maker_ ,” Cullen exhaled, just as shakily, urging Adaar closer with squeezes and tugs. He groaned again when Adaar hitched closer and nestled hot, intriguing hardness against Cullen’s abdomen. It was only then that Cullen noticed his own just-beginning-to-join-the-conversation arousal. Late to the table, as ever, but neither timid nor ambivalent about its appetite and intentions. “Maker, you’re . . . _Kaaras_. . . .”

 

“Cullen, _please_ ,” Adaar . . . no, _Kaaras_ —lovely, silly, sweet, mesmerizing _Kaaras_ —murmured, his mouth brushing Cullen’s like a terrific tease and a beautiful benediction. Like a prayer answered. His lips were soft and a bit chilled, still, from outside, but they also seemed to spark against Cullen’s. To instill tingling and heat, and the most _intense_ flush of pleasure Cullen had ever experienced from a touch. And he knew only that he needed it _again_ , and more besides. “I’ve wanted—needed to be with you exactly like this since I first laid eyes on you. Every moment I’m _not_ with you— _exactly like this_ —kills me. _Please_ . . . please.”

 

Too far gone beyond his own defeated restraint and lost in his long-checked desire, Cullen captured Kaaras’ trembling mouth in a nearly-chaste kiss, holding the gesture as if to sound it out. And he remained unmoving until Kaaras shivered and whimpered . . . small, surrendered, and breathless. He shyly parted his lips, flicking the timorous tip of his tongue against the separating seam of Cullen’s mouth.

 

Cullen groaned and surged into a second, far less chaste phase of their first kiss with singular zeal. Kaaras tasted like ripe-sweet apples ready for a cider-house. Like some exotic-unfamiliar-heady spice. Like _autumn._ The taste of him should have clashed with the _scent_ of him, still embriums and green and _summer_ . . . but it didn’t. The two seasons combined to overthrow Cullen’s reason and reasons against. To break down all resistance and all desire for anything beyond _this_.

 

Kaaras’ mouth was wet and warm, his tongue agile and shameless. _Greedy_. It taunted and teased _Cullen’s_ , luring it into the delicious, addictive haven from whence it came, and lead it into some agility, shamelessness, and greed of its own. Then Kaaras hummed happily, sensual and sybaritic, when Cullen took control of the kiss, dominating the tone and tenor of it, and the depth and pace.

 

He slid his hands up under Kaaras’ tunic, to the smooth-heated skin and muscle lightly padding his ribs. Kaaras made a sound that was so wanton and wild, and he quaked like a tempest-tossed ship. A rough, pleased sound of approval rumbled from low in Cullen’s chest as he slid his hands back, wrapping his arms around Kaaras’ waist. Then he shoved his still stiff, but at last _warm_ hands down the back of Kaaras’ breeches, squeezing and biting into muscled flesh once more, but without the malicious barrier of medium-weight wool.

 

Kaaras _melted_ against him with a long, hungry whimper . . . all heated-smooth skin, firm-yielding flesh, and total, unequivocal welcome. He wrapped _his arms_ around Cullen’s neck gingerly—then less so, when Cullen gave no sign of discomfort or pause. The strength in that embrace and those arms would have been unpleasantly intimidating if they’d belonged to anyone _but Kaaras_. As it stood, the embrace—those arms— _Kaaras_ —was. . . .

 

They were consumed by the passion of their clinch, their kiss, and their touches. Hands squeezed fevered-hungry flesh and fingers plucked at uniforms—as well as chestplate, pauldrons, rerebraces, and vambraces, in Cullen’s case. Kaaras clutched and kept Cullen tighter and tighter, with arms and legs, and Cullen clutched him back just as tight. Kissed him even harder and more desperately: nipping at the kiss-swollen softness of Kaaras’ lips, and sucking at the sweet-tart slickness of his tongue.

 

He noticed but didn’t quite register or process Kaaras freeing his right hand from its grasp of the half-unbuckled left pauldron. Didn’t really track that hand’s hasty, hungry passage south until it’d worked its way between their demanding, frantic bodies to cup, squeeze, then stroke Cullen’s erection slow and hard. Even through Cullen’s leather breeches, the touch was such a thrilling shock, and so completely devastating, he broke the kiss at last to shudder and swear. To clamp down on his burning desire to shove himself more firmly into that grasp and come _at least_ once from such longed-for ministrations.

 

“You are. . . .” Cullen began when he’d composed himself a little—outwardly; but not-so-deep down, he was more lost and surrendered than ever—but for the telltale pant and rasp of his hot-heavy breath, and the sharp-aggressive thrust of his hips. Kaaras smirked and did not stop stroking, his gaze burning brightly into Cullen’s dazed-awed one.

 

“ _Commander Cullen_ . . . is all this for _me_?” he teased, low and purring. Cullen huffed a laugh and leaned his forehead against Kaaras’ again. He put his hips into meeting those rough, appreciative strokes as the last of his restraint grew both brittle and frayed. His breathing was once again light, but erratic, and his hands clutched at then dug greedy, ungentle fingers into Kaaras’ solid biceps. As if to hold him _right here_ for as long as possible.

 

For . . . _ever_.

 

“Maker, but I want you more than anything,” he admitted guiltily. As if his covetous, sinful, _selfish_ nature where Kaaras was concerned _wasn’t_ already a given. Kaaras moaned and stole a kiss that was more panting and licking than kissing, before trying to undo the hasps of Cullen’s breeches singlehandedly.

 

“I’m _yours_ , Cullen. Since day one,” he said, his lips ghosting tingling-wet trails toward Cullen’s ear. There, they lingered and laved the lobe, which felt almost scalded by the wet heat of Kaaras’ stuttering breaths. When he chuckled throatily and squeezed harder, Cullen swore, _blasphemed_ , then groaned, thanking Andraste and promising _Kaaras_ any boons he could name. _Anything_ , so long as Cullen got to have _this_. Have _him_. . . .

 

Cullen didn’t even realize he’d muttered any of that _aloud_ until Kaaras chuckled and responded.

 

“Then _have me_ , Cullen. On this desk, on the floor . . . on my back, on my stomach— _on my knees_ , if you please—just _don’t stop_. Don’t ever let me g-go again and don’t ever leave.” In the space of seconds, Kaaras’ voice went from sultry to shaken, confident to capitulated. Firm to fearful. His holds on Cullen—respectively, at the left rerebrace just below that shoulder’s pauldron, and at the site of exalted agony and tortuous _bliss_ that was Cullen’s prick and balls—loosened. Grew quite reticent.

 

“Kaaras? I—I mean, _Inquisitor_?” Cullen managed, and Kaaras hitched and sniffled.

 

“ _Please_ don’t call me that, Cullen. Not now, not after—not when. . . .” Kaaras huffed a miserable chuckle, sitting back a little and loosening his grip on Cullen’s armored bicep. The now barely-there hold on Cullen’s erection left altogether and Kaaras turned his face away from Cullen’s, down a bit and toward the door leading deeper into the castle. “I’m such a _fool_! I know _better_ than this! Better than to risk your respect and friendship over a rushed dalliance you probably already regret! _I know better_. But . . . I can’t help myself, anymore, despite that. The fact that you’re _the best person_ I’ve ever known and dear to me beyond explanation only makes you _more_ impossible to resist! And now that I _have_ touched you and held you . . . _Cullen_. . . .”

 

Kaaras hung his head. But this close, Cullen could still see the hectic-crimson that heated his angular, ruddy-gray, down-turned face and the tears that dripped off it.

 

“Please, don’t, Kaaras,” Cullen begged hoarsely, his own throat ticking and tightening. As always, he forcibly swallowed what he wanted to say around what was _right_ to say. “Not over me. I’m not the best _anything_. And certainly _not_ the best you can do.”

 

“You’re _everything_. All that I want,” Kaaras mumbled, only just audibly. Then he sniffed and sniffled, and more tears dripped off his averted face. “You’re . . . every dream I was too afraid to let myself have _until_ I met you. I don’t even _begin_ to know how to not want you, Cullen.”

 

“You don’t even know me. Not really,” Cullen scoffed, his own hold of Kaaras loosening. He took three steps back, putting curséd distance between their bodies once again. The heat that they’d generated dissipated near-instantly in the brisk winter breeze sweeping through the open parapet-door. “You have this image, built up in your heart, of the man you want me to be—”

 

“The man you _already are_.” Kaaras’ voice, and his eyes when he looked up at Cullen once more, were certain and fierce. Stubborn, and about as mutable as marble.

 

“You don’t know me, Kaaras,” Cullen repeated, grim and miserable as only a taste of real happiness could make him. Kaaras sighed softly.

 

“Then _tell me_ something about you. Something to disillusion me and scare me away. Tell me who _you_ think you are, _vhenan_ ,” Kaaras challenged with almost ferocious solemnity and promise, “and _I’ll_ show you just how wrong you are about that. How wrong you’ve _been_.”

 

After more than a minute spent searching those bright, determined eyes and that stubborn, adamant face, Cullen’s shoulders sagged. But he maintained eye-contact as steadily and earnestly as he could.

 

“If you wish. You . . . asked me once what happened at Ferelden’s Circle at Kinloch. And I warned you off. Or tried to _put you off_.” He snorted. “Kinloch Hold was overrun by Abominations. The Templars— _my friends_ —who guarded the Circle of Magi were slaughtered, as were most of our charges. And I . . . the demons . . . I was tortured. They tried to . . . break my mind and corrupt my soul. More days than not, I’m certain they succeeded. I’ve felt that way since the Hero of Ferelden saved what was left of Kinloch’s Templars and Circle. She was . . . like _you_. Brave and _kind_ and shining. Beautiful. She tried to comfort me after she saved me—tried to _help_ me, but I . . . I was ungrateful and cruel. Angry that I’d lived when my friends had died. Disgusted by what I’d been reduced to, in comparison to her brightness. To her _goodness_. The same brightness and goodness of which I’d been so enamored before that Grey Warden-Commander had conscripted her from Kinloch’s Circle a few months prior.”

 

Adaar’s coppery brows lifted wryly, but his eyes and face were wistful and endeared. “’Enamored,’ eh? Did you ever . . . act on that feeling?”

 

Cullen’s smile widened as well, but it was wry, bordering on _rueful_. “She was my charge, Kaaras—basically my prisoner. I’d watched her from afar, as was my duty. I was even present at her Harrowing . . . but had she returned my feelings ten-fold, any sort of . . . affection between us would have been inappropriate. She was, however, a lovely woman. Incredibly principled and good-hearted. She pulled me from the jaws of death and madness. Possibly worse. I was in a sorry state, but there’s no excuse for my treatment of her. In time, I came to _deeply_ regret lashing out. And I . . . wish she knew that. But neither Her Majesty, nor King Alistair remember me fondly enough—or well enough—to desire _even_ an apology of me, I’m certain.”

 

Looking down at the awful, aching space between their bodies, Cullen took a deep breath. So did Kaaras, and together, they moved to close the gap that separated them. Kaaras leaned into Cullen, his arms around Cullen’s neck again and his face pressed against Cullen’s cheek and jaw. He was so pliant and perfect and _right_. Cullen held him back, panic-tight, and want that burned brighter than Cullen’s withdrawal, and its myriad pains and agonies, nearly overtook him once more.

 

Swallowing, Cullen forced himself to finish the rest of his disclosure. “If there was a way to be the same after what had happened at Kinloch, I didn’t know what it was and neither did anyone else. My superiors in the Order sent me to Kirkwall when I was deemed _recovered and steady_ , where I was to serve under Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard.”

 

“ _The Gallows’ Ghoul_ ,” Adaar murmured, soft-wet-warm between Cullen’s jaw and sideburn. He shivered and nodded.

 

“Yes. Among many other charming, but quite well-earned appellations.” He sighed and looked to his right, focusing on the west-slanting white light of day that lingered near the open parapet-door. “I trusted her, at first and for a long time. But her fear of mages and magic turned to madness. It ended in chaos and death that nearly consumed Kirkwall. The city’s Circle fell, and innocent people died in the streets. In the Rebellion that _Meredith accelerated_ with her draconian measures and mercilessness—banishing Templars who opposed her from the Order and having all _magi_ who opposed her made Tranquil. Rebellion was eventual, yet it was still but a spark . . . until Meredith showed up with a bucket of pitch. She used those under her command to do evil. _Willful evil_. But I’ve no doubt that her madness and corruption was, in part, due to decades of lyrium’s influence. So, can you see, now, Kaaras, why I want _no part_ of that life? Of that Order? Not their methods or madness. Not their Maker-damned _lyrium_ ,” Cullen growled.

 

Kaaras sighed and leaned back to look Cullen in the face. Then he reached up to cup Cullen’s cheek in his warm, callused hand. When Cullen found the courage to meet and hold that gaze, he received a smile and a kiss for his daring and fortitude. Or what passed for them, these days.

 

All but moaning, he held the kiss and held Kaaras close and tight, not letting go even when the kiss ended abruptly, with them both gasping for breath and self-control, arms around each other, and trembling-trembling-trembling.

 

“Of course, I see, Cullen. And I _also_ see that you’re troubled and hurting . . . but _strong_. And courageous. And _good_. You are . . . _the most_ amazing and beautiful person, and I love you,” Adaar breathed fervently, his thighs locking tight and possessive around Cullen’s hips again. His eyes were hypnotic in their unique whirls of color and brightness. “ _I love you_.”

 

“Don’t!” Cullen barked, sudden and terse, then shook his head when Kaaras tensed in his arms and started to draw back while turning his face away. “ _Maker_ , Kaaras, I didn’t mean—I _don’t_ mean—” Cullen cupped Kaaras’ face in his own hands then bobbed up on his toes. He laid a reverent kiss on Kaaras’ furrowed brow, and let himself be captured by the vulnerable gaze not far below. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, I just . . . you _shouldn’t be_ —you _should be_ questioning what I’ve confessed to playing a part in! All of it! You should be shoving me away from you and storming out of here in disappointment and horror! You should be tossing me out of this castle and the Inquisition! Not comforting me and standing by me . . . not offering me everything I’ve ever wanted as if the accepting, having, and _keeping_ are so bloody _simple_!”

 

Kaaras gaped at Cullen for a few moments, gobstruck and seemingly at a loss. Then, his expression softened into one of such unadulterated and unconditional affection and acceptance, Cullen’s knees went weak for a few alarming seconds. He held onto Kaaras even tighter just in case, and his breathing went fast again . . . harsh and loud.

 

“Oh, _ma vhenan_ ,” Kaaras cooed quietly, all not-Free Marches lilt and radiant happiness as he bore Cullen’s wobbling weight easily. He left his right arm draped over Cullen’s left shoulder and brushed his left thumb along Cullen’s stubbly jaw. Then across his bitten bottom lip, before nudging and nuzzling Cullen’s nose with his own, as the sweet initiation of another kiss. Such were the truth and purity of even these simple displays, that Cullen would have _definitely_ gone to his enervated knees, but for his stranglehold on Kaaras, who chuckled with that fondness and lack of reserve Cullen had so missed. “I _love_ you, Cullen Rutherford,” Kaaras whispered on Cullen’s lower lip, bussing it feather-light and repeatedly, before pressing their mostly-closed mouths together firmly, but briefly. “And it _is_ just that simple. Or it _could be_ , if you’d let it.”

 

Cullen sighed, but softly, barely. Even _he_ wasn’t so self-flagellating as to deprive himself of even a _single_ kiss from Kaaras Adaar. Not now that he’d experienced the scorching sweetness of them. But once Kaaras leaned back to smile at him, obviously blissed-out and besotted, Cullen shook his head again. “You don’t understand, Kaaras. I don’t deserve—”

 

“I don’t _give a Tainted damn_ what you deserve or _think_ you deserve!” Kaaras declared, unyielding and almost angry with it. But when he continued, his voice was soft again, as meek and mild as a love-struck lamb. Just like his eyes, under their assertive surface-sparkle of faith and certainty. “I only care what you _want and need,_ and . . . if either of those things happens to be . . . _me-shaped_ , then I’m _yours_ at a moment’s notice. _Always_. You have only to take me.”

 

Kaaras’ gentle emphasis on _take_ was not lost on Cullen, as his bright, hot blush and still-impossible-to-miss arousal could attest.

 

“I have to be _better_ than this, Inquisitor,” he insisted. “Better than succumbing to temptation and indulging in companionship that I haven’t earned and would only ruin. I . . . I have to be _in control_. Must _regain control_ of myself and my life, for your sake. For the sake of the _Inquisition_. This . . . yearning I feel for you will never leave me. My need and my desire for you—and my . . . love . . . they will _always_ be a part of me. But I can’t allow myself to. . . .”

 

“Be happy?” Kaaras asked quietly, and Cullen shivered, closing his eyes on tears. The damned things would only make matters worse for them both.

 

“I swore myself to our cause, Inquisitor. Countless lives depend upon our success. I must not— _I will not_ give less to the Inquisition than I did to the Templars and the bloody Chantry!” He took several shallow breaths as familiar litanies and liturgies played in the back of his frazzled mind. Neither worked to calm or still him, as they naturally lead his mind to the inescapable fact of his life. “I . . . I should be taking it.”

 

“Is that what _you_ want? Or merely what you think duty demands of you?” Kaaras asked earnestly, not a dram of rhetorical cynicism in his tone or eyes. Cullen’s gaze dropped to lovely-plush lips he already wanted to reclaim until. . . .

 

Simply until. “The Inquisition—”

 

“I didn’t ask about the Inquisition, Cullen. I asked what _you_ want. _Tell me, at last, what do you want?_ ” Kaaras whispered, but rushed and urgent. When Cullen didn’t—couldn’t answer, Kaaras kissed him again, hard and demanding and full of poignant longing. “I will do my best to stand by _whatever_ you decide, but first . . . tell me what you _actually want_.”

 

“Besides _you_? At my side and in my arms forever?” Cullen retorted with a defensive, irritable huff. Kaaras’ wide eyes got a lot wider and lot shinier. The sight of him, of the fearsome and already-mythic _Inquisitor Adaar_ , rendered momentarily speechless and love-struck again, lifted not just some of the weight from Cullen’s shoulders, but from his heart, as well. Because _of course_ , it did. Of course, _Kaaras_ did. “I should think that would be quite enough _impossible_ for one lifetime!”

 

Kaaras quirked another cheeky grin at him, all curve and dimple. “Where _you_ are concerned, Cullen Stanton Rutherford, if I was any _more_ possible, we’d be wearing _far_ less clothing and doing far less _talking_.”

 

Cullen’s face went up in flames that felt literal. “Kaaras . . . you’re—”

 

“ _Here_ , Cullen.” That cheeky grin faded into a tiny, grave smile that was all hope and no pride. “I’m _right here_ , after far too long spent pining and despairing from afar. I’m here and I need you. I _love_ you. You’re the only one I want. That will never change and never stop.”

 

“But. . . .” Cullen heaved another sigh and tried to look away. Pull away. Put some distance between them once more, even if he couldn’t quite _walk away_. But other than the pious, naïve, and useless remnants of the Cullen Rutherford who’d proudly accepted his first lyrium-kit—then taken that first dose with near orgasmic reverence—no other facet or inkling of himself had any interest in being away from Kaaras Adaar ever again. Yet even as Cullen polled those milling, mumbling other facets for opinions, the Templar-Recruit who would always be nattering and praying and fretting in a corner of his soul spoke up. “What happened at Kinloch and then at Kirkwall . . . the memories and nightmares are . . . I can’t always . . . you shouldn’t have to deal with or even see that. Nor the consequences and results. No one should.”

 

“And _you’re_ the arbiter of Things Kaaras Adaar Should See and Not See, now?” Kaaras’ voice was aiming for playful, but the mule-stubbornness running through his tone made the effort fall flat. “ _Please_ tell me one of the _Should Sees_ is you, naked and hard in my bed?”

 

Cullen’s fading blush rallied instantly, and his breeches very quickly became uncomfortable and restricting. But he persevered. “I—I won’t let you distract me from this, Kaaras. Won’t let you keep me from being honest with you and _protecting_ you from the quagmire that is _my life_. Even in my best moments, I’m continually haunted by my past. Beset by pain and exhaustion and physical unsoundness. Ironically, the lyrium that caused these maladies would also keep them in check for some years, before the madness set in. Before . . . but if I can no longer endure the toll taken by lyrium’s lack—can no longer endure the memories and failures that have shaped me—”

 

“ _You can_ ,” Kaaras informed him, as full of fire, faith, and certainty as any one hundred Cassandra Pentaghasts. His eyes sparkled green and gold—gold and green?—like the Breach. But . . . right and safe . . . and beautiful. The love-hope-faith beam of Kaaras’ smile was the first flicker of genuine _purpose_ Cullen had felt in so long. The first to settle heart- and soul-deep since childhood, when Cullen had heard the call of the Templar Order. And this time, when Kaaras kissed him, it was chaste and sweet again, but electric-bright. “More importantly, _you will. Please_ , Cullen. _Fight_. Hold on. I believe in you and I _love_ you. I will be here for you always . . . waiting, if that’s what it takes, and once waiting’s done, holding on and never letting go. I _swear on my love for you:_ I’m yours and I’m not going anywhere.”

 

From its new resting place behind his larynx, Cullen’s heart throbbed and sighed, tired of a lifetime of _fighting against_ and _bracing for_. It wanted something far different, now. Perhaps it always had, only . . . _now_ , it was finally ready to take that leap. To figure out what _different_ was and make a strategy for getting it.

 

And holding it.

 

And _keeping it_.

 

Cullen Rutherford opened his mouth, with the Templar-Recruit’s doubts and what-ifs ready on his blasted traitor-tongue. But what came out instead was a familiar, weary exhale that was practically a defeated sigh. And yet . . . _this_ weary defeat felt like a victory. Like the beginnings of tentative, but growing _hope_ after so long without.

 

So very long.

 

“Alright,” he whispered. Capitulated. _Dedicated himself_ , then nodded. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Kaaras’. “I don’t know how I’ll . . . how _we’ll_ manage, should we get that far. But if you’re willing to wait a little, until I’m . . . _less_ of a mess, then I’ll be brave and try my best. _For you_ , Kaaras. But I . . . cannot yet promise you more than that.”

 

Kaaras hummed and chuckled, sounding content and more than slightly smug. “It’s a good thing, then, that I’m not asking you to.”

 

“You still _deserve_ —”

 

“Oh, _shut up_ , Commander.” Kaaras eyes seemed to glow, now, and they were, indeed, more of a golden-green, than a greeny-gold. Warm-warm-warm, and hot-hot-hot. “And _do_ kiss me again? Before I begin to rethink this whole irrevocably-in-love-with-a-stubborn-bloody-Fereldan-Commander business, entirely.”

 

Cullen rolled his eyes and snorted but did as he was bidden. Briefly, at first. But as time passed, restraint went out the open parapet-door and off into the bright day. Kaaras was somehow able to snake his large, but clever hand into the undone fly of Cullen’s breeches, and resumed stroking Cullen’s prick and alternately fondling his balls, with appreciation, relish, and élan.

 

“I want you, Cullen,” Kaaras finally exhaled, so desperate and needy and _ravenous_. For the moment, his mouth wasn’t occupied with kisses or love-bites or laving with his teasing tongue the spots he’d marked via wicked-intent teeth. “I’ve dreamt of this—of your body on mine, in mine, and around mine . . . of _you_ —every night since the first day I met you.”

 

How Cullen managed to control himself once more, and refrain from taking all that he’d been wanting from Kaaras—who burned hotter and brighter than the sun in Cullen’s arms . . . and more steadfast than the most beneficent star—was surely a debate for the scholars and the Ages.

 

But the sound of yearning, petulant protest that escaped Kaaras’ tempting, trembling lips as Cullen put a bit of space between them—if not any real propriety, for he hadn’t _quite_ the fortitude to remove Kaaras’ talented, determined hand from his breeches—was the finest music he’d ever heard.

 

A glance at the open parapet-door showed that the overcast sunlight had shifted west considerably. Cullen’s office was now only marginally warmer than Skyhold’s cold-cellars. Though, it was difficult to care when Kaaras was tugging him close again, by his prick and his right hip, and nibbling on his earlobe with sharp, particular nips, interspersed with tiny, teasing kitten-licks.

 

“You deserve the world,” Cullen told him solemnly, on the back of breathless gasps. Kaaras hummed and did something with his tongue and teeth simultaneously that made Cullen grunt, then _groan_ . . . loud and long. With a satisfied little sound, Kaaras leaned his head on Cullen’s shoulder. He felt so right and familiar, like that. _Perfect_ , despite the slightly odd angle necessitated by his height and his—upward-and-back curling, rather than outward, thankfully—horns. “I want to _give you_ the world.”

 

“Help me _save it_ , first, Cullen. Then, maybe, once you’ve _also_ sorted out that _you’re_ wonderful, _I’m_ wonderful, and that it’s perfectly alright for us to be wonderfully, _idiotically_ smitten with each other, we could discuss having a world of our very own,” Kaaras mused, his stroking hand slowing to a gentle, possessive-claiming hold. “A nice, sprawling bit of property in South Reach—a farmstead, perhaps? One near your siblings, and with plenty of room for Skully, a dog, a few tame nugs, maybe a cat. Oooh! And some _geese_. . . .”

 

Cullen snorted once more, then hugged Kaaras closer, tighter, not bothering to fight a smile that felt huge and possibly beatific, despite the continuous tears that bracketed it. “As you say, Inquisitor. Should we win through this war without me going _completely_ mad, or _you_ regaining what passes for your common sense or taste in suitors, I . . . would be open to such a discussion.”

 

“You _shameless flatterer_! Ha! Change that _Inquisitor_ to _dear_ , and you’re already _very promising_ settling-down material, Commander Cullen!” Kaaras somehow made himself not only more cuddly and pliant in Cullen’s arms, but defenseless and small, as well. “Hmm . . . I’ve never had a pet _dog_ , before. Do they get lonely easily? Maybe we should get _two dogs_? A _Mabari_ , and . . . _another_ Mabari. . . !”

 

“ _Kaaras_.” Cullen kissed Kaaras’ temple near the base of his left horn, chuckling quietly as the younger man rambled, then rumbled his way to contented silence. For the first time since his days as a recruit, Cullen was taken entirely by wary, but bemused wonder. And like the curséd gulf between himself and Kaaras—so recently corrected—the cracks in Cullen’s spirit and the fissures in his _heart_ felt as if they’d begun the great, good task of _mending_. And perhaps. . . .

 

“You’re _everything_ to me, too, you know?” Cullen confessed and the aching-welling-choking feeling that’d been building in his throat since . . . Haven, perhaps, lessened greatly. Though it didn’t yet disappear. “Absolutely everything.”

 

Kaaras shivered and sat up a little, sniffling and sighing and pressing his warm-wet cheek to Cullen’s. “I want one of those Rivaini talking parrots, too. We’ll teach it nothing, but bawdy limericks and Orlesian swears.”

 

“Hmm. Why _Orlesian_ swears?”

 

“ _Everything_ sounds fancy and poetical in Orlesian, Cullen. _You_ know that,” Kaaras chastised, the Free Marches-drawl fading once again as the musical lilt gained prominence. It barreled quickly down into that intriguing, half-familiar brogue. “Why, I once told one of my superiors in the Valo-Kas to go fuck himself—in my most courtly Orlesian—with an unstripped log. Sideways, even.”

 

“Erm. Ah, hmm. Clearly such insubordination didn’t end as badly as one might assume it would have. . . .”

 

“Not at all! Because it’s like I said: _everything_ sounds like poetry in Orlesian. _More so_ if the _eedjit_ you’re speaking with doesn’t know a single word of it!” Kaaras added with a soft, almost sleepy sigh, and Cullen chuckled again, briefly turning over then filing away _eedjit_ in his quiescent, but vigilant mind, for later. Especially when Kaaras’ body relaxed _utterly_ against his, then started to shudder with the sort of stress-release shakes Cullen most associated with post-battle shock or the relief of battle-stress.

 

 _But he’s_ not _on a battlefield. Not at this moment._ At this moment _, Kaaras Adaar is shaken, but safe and secure in my arms. And_ content _to be so. He loves me and believes in me. He feels I’m worth his time and trouble and care. Worth his waiting. And that’s more than I’ve ever gotten. For the moment, it is_ enough, Cullen told himself—murmured it on the rabbiting-swift pulse at Kaaras’ temple—as he offered the simple, silent comfort of his presence and embrace to the man he loved. _For the moment, this . . . is everything_.

 

And thus, Cullen, too, was content. Though he still had doubts and fears—as ingrained as they were massive—he cautiously allowed _himself_ to believe. To _hope_ that, like a Fade-Rift, his spirit and heart could be healed and _sealed_ by Kaaras Adaar’s determined hand. By his unflinching tenacity.

 

By his patient faith and . . . his _unwavering love_.

 

And Cullen hoped that he might someday _repay_ Kaaras’ unreserved generosity in similar fashion. That his own loyalty, devotion, determination, tenacity, and . . . _love_ might benefit _Kaaras_ in some meaningful way, as well.

 

 _Cullen hoped._  And for the moment . . . that was, indeed, enough. It was everything.

 

#

 

_*And I nearly forgot my broken heart._

_It's taking me miles away_

_From the memory of how we broke apart._

_Here we go ‘round again._

_Here we go ‘round again._

_Here we go ‘round again._

_Here we go ‘round again._

  _Here we go ‘round again._

  

END

**Author's Note:**

>  **Credits/Sources:**  
> 
> *“Nearly Forgot My Broken Heart,” Lyrics by Chris Cornell  
> **Cullen’s written messages to the Inquisitor are taken from [Dragon Age Wikia](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/), directly. Significant dialogue throughout the fic was taken from the game and cutscenes, though altered for the purposes of the story. See [this YouTube cutscene link](https://youtu.be/BcaBDNkJVK4) for dialogue sources.
> 
> Powered most notably by: Chris Cornell’s [Higher Truth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=etFtH1tW9K4). 
> 
>  
> 
> (Note, however, that _this isn’t a songfic_ . . . these songs just describe where Cullen’s and Adaar’s heads are at—where _my head_ was at—during this process/endeavor. [Nearly Forgot My Broken Heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zpMfZPAc1kg) was _Cullen’s song_. [3 Libras](https://youtu.be/EoqXDPbivFs) was _Adaar’s song_. At _this point_ in their relationship and their lives. Their mileage and mine will vary, throughout this series.)
> 
>  
> 
> Anywho! [Tell me something good? Tell me that you like it, yeeeeaaaaah](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com). . . ?


End file.
